THE  LIBRARY  s" 
OF         "x-- 
THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


IN  MEMORY  OF 
MRS.  VIRGINIA  B.  SPORER 


SHORT  HISTORY 


OF 


GERMAN  LITERATURE 


BY  JAMES  K.  HOSMER 

PROFESSOR  OF  ENGLISH  AND  GERMAN  LITERATURE,  WASHINGTON 

UNIVERSITY,  ST.  Louis;   AUTHOR  OF  "THE  COLOR 

GUARD,"  "THE  THINKING  BAYONET,"  ETC. 


"So  riel  Einzelnes  iat  in  den  Vordergrund  gesteUt  warden  doss  der  klare  Ueber- 
blick  iiter  das  Game  fast  verloren  geht." — liudolph  Gottschall. 


ST.    LOUIS 

G.   I.    JONES   AND   COMPANY 
1879 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1878,  by 

JAMES  K.  HOSMEK, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


St.  Louis:  Press  of  G.  I.  Jones  and  Company. 


StacJf* 


I 
05*^ 


PREFACE. 


If  we  turn  back  two  hundred  years,  we  find  the  read- 
ing men  of  England,  if  they  have  time  to  go  beyond 
their  own  authors,  giving  their  attention,  among  moderns, 
to  the  Italians  and  Spanish.  As  yet  in  Europe  only  Italy 
and  Spain,  besides  England,  had  seen  the  rise  of  litera- 
tures of  sufficient  moment  to  influence  the  cultivated 
world  beyond  the  national  limits.  Dante,  Petrarch, 
Boccaccio,  Ariosto,  Tasso,  Machiavelli  had  lived,  and 
these  are  still  the  greatest  Italian  names.  In  Spain, 
Cervantes,  Lope  de  Vega,  and  Calderon  had  done  their 
work, — work  which  no  succeeding  writers  of  that  land 
have  equalled. 

If  we  go  back  one  hundred  years,  the  literature  of 
France  has  taken  the  place  in  the  estimation  of  the  Eng- 
lish once  held  by  the  writers  of  Spain  and  Italy;  the 
brilliant  men  of  the  age  of  Louis  XIV  have  laid  the 
world  under  their  spell.  In  our  time,  again,  the  influence 
of  France  has  been,  to  a  large  extent,  supplanted.  Fol- 
lowing especially  the  lead  of  two  of  the  most  gifted 
Englishmen  of  the  century,  Coleridge  and  Carlyle,  the 
present  generation  turns  with  most  reverence  to  the 
Germans,  often  regarding  their  literature  as  the  most 
important  in  the  world,  after  our  own,  if,  indeed,  we 
are  to  make  that  exception.  It  will  scarcely  be  ques- 
tioned that  some  knowledge  of  the  history  of  German 
literature  is,  to  English-speaking  persons,  an  essential 
part  of  thorough  culture. 

In  the  account  of   the  adventures  of  the  god  Thor 


2041972 


iv  PREFACE. 

among  the  giants,  as  told  in  the  Prose  Edda,  the  story  is 
given  of  his  attempt  to  lift  from  the  earth  the  cat  of 
Utgard-Loki,  the  king  of  the  giants.  With  all  his 
strength  the  mortified  Thor,  lifting  the  cat's  back  into 
an  arch,  can  get  only  one  of  her  feet  from  the  ground. 
He  is  consoled,  however,  when  Utgard-Loki  tells  him  in 
confidence  that  the  cat  was  no  other  than  the  great  Mid- 
gard  serpent,  which  encircles  the  whole  earth.  The  writer 
is  reminded  of  the  story  as  he  thinks  of  a  certain  ingen- 
uous, but  callow,  youth  who  once  undertook  to  possess 
himself  of  a  knowledge  of  German  literature,  and  who, 
after  valiant  wrestling,  became  the  victim  of  chagrin 
as  deep  as  that  which  befel  the  mighty  god  of  the  ham- 
mer. Certainly  the  great  Midgard  serpent,  encircling  the 
earth,  with  its  tail  in  its  mouth,  is  scarcely  less  appro- 
priate as  a  symbol  of  German  literature  than  as  a  symbol 
of  eternity.  Twelve  thousand  five  hundred  and  sixteen 
works  are  said  to  have  been  published  in  Germany  in  the 
one  year,  1876.  Of  the  writers  esteemed  of  sufficient  sig- 
nificance to  be  noted  in  a  thorough  history  of  literature, 
the  number  is  legion ;  in  one  such  history  the  indices 
alone,  containing  little  else  than  names,  fill  fifty-nine 
large,  closely-printed,  double-columned  pages.  Again, 
your  proper  German  author  has  no  respect  whatever  for 
the  eyes  or  the  power  of  attention  of  his  readers ;  his 
conscience  assaults  him  until  he  gains  peace  by  building 
his  volumes  about  himself  into  a  towering  barricade. 
Gothe's  dramatic  pieces  alone  number  more  than  fifty, 
and  his  work  in  that  direction  is  a  trifling  part  of  what 
he  accomplished.  Jean  Paul  wrote  between  sixty  and 
seventy  books,  the  difficulties  of  whose  style  are  so  great 
that  it  has  been  found  necessary  to  prepare  for  him  a 
special  dictionary.  The  selected  works  of  Hans  Sachs, 
the  Nuremberg  mastersinger,  amount  to  more  than  six 
thousand,  and  are  fairly  corded  into  the  vast  folios  in 


PREFACE.  V 

which  they  are  preserved.  Again,  if  we  look  at  the  size 
of  some  of  the  individual  books,  one  of  the  works  of 
Lohenstein,  a  dramatist  and  tale-writer  of  the  seven- 
teenth century,  contains  alone  three  thousand  quarto 
pages,  its  synopsis  requiring  ninety-six. 

Histories  of  German  literature  in  the  German  language 
abound.  Several  have  been  translated  into  English  ;  in- 
dependent histories  have  also  been  attempted  by  English 
authors.  Of  such  accounts  some  are  intended  for 
scholars, — great  works  of  reference, — others  for  popular 
reading.  As  regards  histories  of  the  latter  kind,  the 
present  writer  believes  it  to  have  been  a  prevailing  defect 
that  perspective  has  not  been  sufficiently  considered,  and 
that  the  attempt  has  been  made  to  comprehend  too  much. 
The  German  mind  has  been  accused,  perhaps  with  justice, 
for  wanting  the  instinct  of  "  selection  ;"  it  has  a  passion  for 
being  exhaustive,  and  "  writes  a  subject  to  its  dregs,"  dis- 
criminating too  little  between  the  important  and  the  value- 
less. By  contagion  the  trouble  has  communicated  itself 
to  English  writers  who  have  considered  German  subjects. 
In  the  accounts  of  German  literature  may  be  clearly  seen 
the  defects  described  in  the  sentence  from  Rudolph  Gott- 
schall,  which  stands  on  the  title-page  of  this  book  as 
a  motto:  "So  many  particulars  have  been  put  into 
the  foreground  that  a  clear,  comprehensive  view  of  the 
entire  subject  is  almost  utterly  lost  "  Take,  for  instance, 
the  excellent  work  of  Gostwick  and  Harrison.  It  is  cor- 
rect and  thorough  ;  the  style  is  not  without  a  certain  pic- 
turesque quality.  Jt  is  excellent  as  a  book  of  reference ; 
but,  as  a  whole,  from  its  minuteness,  quite  unreadable. 
The  attention  utterly  breaks  down  in  the  effort  to  retain 
the  names  of  unimportant  books  and  individuals ;  one 
wanders  bewildered  in  a  maze  of  detail,  and  obtains  no 
satisfactory  general  view. 

In  the  present  sketch  of  the  history  of  German  litera- 


vi  PREFACE. 

tare,  the  writer  confines  himself  to  one  field,  **  Die 
schone  Literatur," — Belles-Lettres,  Polite  Literature. 
Even  with  this  limitation  the  sea  is  practically  boundless, 
and  he  hardly  dares  to  claim  that  he  has  picked  up  even 
the  Newtonian  pebbles.  During  many  years  he  has  read 
industriously  of  the  immense  mass,  and  can,  at -any  rate, 
assert  that  in  the  pages  that  follow  few  names  are  men- 
tioned in  whose  case  an  honest  attempt  has  not  been 
made  to  reach  an  estimate  at  first  hand  by  study  of  the 
most  characteristic  works.  The  authors  mentioned  are 
comparatively  few  in  number.  Attention  is  concentrated 
upon  "epoch-making"  men  and  books,  the  effort  being 
made  to  consider  these  with  care.  What  is  of  subordi- 
nate importance  has  not  been  neglected ;  but  the  attempt 
has  been  made  in  every  case  to  proportion  the  amount  of 
light  thrown  to  the  significance  of  the  figure  which  was 
to  receive  it. 

While  I  am  indebted  to  a  considerable  number  of  critics 
and  scholars,  to  whom  reference  is  made  in  the  foot- 
notes, I  must  acknowledge  especial  obligation  to  the  really 
vast  work  of  Heinrich  Kurz,1  in  which  a  thorough  critical 
history  of  German  literature  is  combined  with  a  full  and 
judiciously-made  anthology.  Immense  though  the  domain 
of  German  literature  is,  it  may  be  almost  said  that  Kurz, 
in  his  four  compact  royal  octavos  of  nine  hundred  pages 
each,  stands  forth  as  its  conqueror.  To  a  large  extent, 
at  any  rate,  he  is  victor ;  the  pages  ranging  before  us 
with  such  wealth  of  booty,  such  hosts  of  captives  in- 
cluded within  the  double  columns,  marshalled  front  and 
rear  by  his  own  well-ordered  history  and  critique,  that  one 
cannot  ask  a  more  perfect  subjugation.  If  a  reader  were 
compelled  to  rely  solely  upon. the  work  of  Kurz  for  his 
knowledge  of  the  subject  (let  him  first  be  sure  of  his 


1  Geschichte  der  Deutschen  Literatur. 


PREFACE.  Vii 

eyesight),  he  need  not  consider  his  information  shallow. 
For  the  purpose  of  this  book  Kurz  has  been  invaluable ; 
beginning,  as  he  does,  with  the  first  fruits,  and  ending 
with  the  men  who  are  making  themselves  known  at  this 
very  hour.  His  estimates  and  discussions,  —  sometimes 
translated  word  for  word,  sometimes  abridged  and  modi- 
fied,—  have  often  been  used,  as  the  frequent  references 
indicate. 

The  writer's  plan  has  been  so  far  elastic  that  he  has 
sometimes  permitted  himself  an  historical  digression,  if 
in  that  way  he  could  obtain  illustration  for  some  point  of 
the  story  he  has  sought  to  tell.  The  chapters  contain 
digressions  of  still  another  kind.  In  a  tour  in  Germany, 
in  which  the  pilgrim  followed,  perhaps,  no  unusual  track, 
but  proceeded  with  the  somewhat  unusual  purpose  of 
visiting  the  spots  famous  through  connection  with  great 
writers,  much  was  seen  possessing  interest.  In  the  idea 
that  a  grateful  relief  might  be  obtained,  the  accounts  of 
books  are  interspersed  with  descriptions  of  the  homes  and 
haunts  of  the  men  who  wrote  them. 

The  translations  which  the  book  contains,  except  when 
it  is  otherwise  specified,  are  original. 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


PAKT  L—  FIRST  PERIOD  OF  BLOOM. 

CHAPTER  I.— THE  BEGINNINGS. 

First  Appearance  of  the  Germans  in  History;  The  Strife  with  Rome; 
Ulphilas;  Karl  the  Great:  As  a  Warrior;  As  a  Law-giver  and  Organizer; 
His  Court;  His  Influence  on  Literature;  The  Work  of  the  Monks;  The 
Time  of  the  Hohenstauffen. 

CHAPTER  II.— THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED. 

The  Burgundian  Court  at  Worms;  Wooing  of  Brunhild;  Marriage  of 
Siegfried  and  Kriemhild;  Death  of  Siegfried;  Etzel's  Wooing;  Riidiger; 
Kriemhild's  Revenge. 

CHAPTER  in.— THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED.    (Continued.) 

High  Appreciation  in  which  the  Poem  is  held;  Its  Origin  and  History; 
The  Poem  as  a  Picture  of  Primitive  German  Life  and  Spirit;  Critique  of 
the  Principal  Characters;  Comparison  with  Homer;  Spots  made  inter- 
esting through  connection  with  the  Poem. 

CHAPTER  IV.  — GUDRUN. 

The  German  Odyssy ;  A  Picture  of  the  Life  of  the  early  Sea  Rovers ;  The 
Heroes  of  Friesland;  Horant's  Singing;  The  Abduction  of  Hilda;  The 
Betrothal  of  Gudrun ;  Her  Captivity ;  The  Heroes  at  Sea;  The  Washing  at 
the  Beach;  The  Rescue.  The  Animal  Epic. 

CHAPTER  V.— THE  MINNESINGERS. 

Walthervon  der  Vogelweide ;  Hadlaub  of  Zurich;  Ulrich  von  Lichten- 
stein;  "The  Rose-garden  at  Worms;"  Hartmann  von  Aue;  Gottfried  von 
Strassburg ;  Wolfram  von  Eschenbach. 

CHAPTER  VI.— THE  DEVELOPMENT  OF  PROSE. 

The  German  Kaisers ;  Political  Circumstances  of  Germany  from  the  end 
of  the  Thirteenth  Century;  Strassburg;  The  Chroniclers ;  The  Preachers ; 
The  Satirists ;  The  Drama. 


X  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  VII.— THE  MASTERSINGERS. 

Heinrich  Frauenlob;  The  Artisans;  Literary  Life  of  the  Cities;  Hans 
Sachs;  "The  Tailor  and  the  Flag;"  "  Saint  Peter  and  the  Goat ;""  The 
Wittenberg  Nightingale ; "  Nuremberg. 

CHAPTER  VIII.—  LUTHER  IN  LITERATURE. 

Outline  of  Luther's  Career;  His  vast  literary  Activity ;  His  influence 
upon  the  German  Language  and  Literature;  The  Translation  of  the 
Bible;  His  Polemical  Writings;  His  Preaching,  Letters,  Hymns;  Places 
Associated  with  Luther. 

CHAPTER  IX.— THE  THIRTY  YEARS'  WAR. 

From  Luther  to  the  end  of  the  Sixteenth  Century;  Friedrich,  King  of 
Bohemia;  Wallenstein  and  Gustavus  Adolphus;  The  Portraits  in  the 
Castle  at  Coburg;  Liitzen;  Exhaustion  of  Germany;  Decay  of  Literature. 


PAKT  LL  —  SECOND  PERIOD  OF  BLOOM. 

CHAPTER  X.  —  LESSING. 

Gottsched  and  Bodmer;  Sketch  of  Lessing's  Life;  The  Fables;  The 
early  Dramas;  "Laocoon;"  "The  Hamburg  Dramaturgy;"  Writings: 
Political  — Polemical  — Theological;  "Nathan  the  Wise;"  Lessing's  re- 
semblance to  Luther. 

CHAPTER  XI.  —  KLorsTOCK,  WIELAND,  AND  HERDER. 

Klopstock's  Youth;  Appearance  of  the  "Messias;"  His  Patriotism;  His 
wide  Influence ;  The  Career  of  Wieland ;  The  Favorite  of  the  elegant 
World;  "Oberon;"  "The  Abderites;"  Contrast  with  KJopstock;  The 
Career  of  Herder;  Immense  range  of  his  Studies;  His  influence  upon 
Poetry;  His  "Ideas  upon  the  Philosophy  of  History;"  Greatness  as 
a  Preacher ;  His  Church  and  Statue  at  Weimar. 


CHAPTER  XII.  — GOTHE. 

Boyhood  at  Frankfort ;  Description  of  his  early  Home  and  Places  as- 
sociated with  him;  Life  at  Strassburg ;  His  extraordinary  Impressibility; 
Brilliancy  of  his  early  Fame;  Description  of  Weimar;  His  Journeys; 
His  Universality ;  As  Man  of  Affairs ;  Vitality  in  Age ;  As  Man  of  Science ; 
The  Novels. 

CHAPTER XIII.— GOTHE.    (Continued.) 

GotheasaPoet;  His  Contrast  with  Schiller;  The  Lyrics;  The  Epics; 
"Hermann  and  Dorothea;"  The  Dramas;  "Iphigenia;"  "Faust;"  Great- 
ness of  his  Genius ;  Estimate  of  his  Character. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  XIV.  — SCHILLER. 

His  Life  and  Character;  Hardships  of  his  Boyhood;  His  early  Fame; 
Contrast  with  Gothe;  Schiller's  Prose;  As  a  Historian ;  As  a  Speculative 
Philosopher;  His  Lyrics;  "The  Song  of  the  Bell;"  The  Ballads;  The 
Dramas ,  The  Constant  Growth  of  his  Genius ;  "  The  Robbers ;"  "Wal- 
lenstein;"  "William  Tell;"  Nobleness  of  Schiller. 

CHAPTER  XV.  —  THE  ROMANTIC  SCHOOL. 

Influence  of  Speculative  Philosophy  upon  Literature;  Kant;  Fichte; 
Schelling;  The  Brothers  Schlegel;  Jean  Paul;  Tieck;  Novalis;  Fouque; 
Theodore  Korner  and  Arndt;  Rlickert;  The  Decay  of  Romanticism; 
Uhland. 

CHAPTER  XVI.  — HEINRICH  HEINE. 

The  Jews  in  Germany;  Heine's  Youth;  His  Apostasy;  His  Journeys; 
Life  in  Paris;  The  "  Mattress -Grave;"  His  Descriptive  Power;  His  Wit; 
His  Pathos. 

CHAPTER  XVII.  —  THE  MODERN  ERA. 

Influences  at  Present  Affecting  Literature;  The  Brothers  Grimm;  Great 
Names  of  the  Present  Time ;  Anticipations ;  Means  for  Culture ;  Probable 
effect  upon  Literature  of  Present  Unity  and  Political  Greatness  of  Ger- 
many. 

CHAPTER  XVIII.  —  GERMAN  STYLE. 

Carlyle's  Defence  of  Obscurity;  Herbert  Spencer's  Dictum;  Periodicity 
of  German  Style;  Severity  of  German  Critics ;  De  Quincy's  Judgment; 
Freiligrath's  "Germany  is  Hamlet;"  Comparative  Estimate  of  German 
Literature 


PAET  L-THE  FIEST  PERIOD  OF  BLOOM. 
CHAPTER  I. 

THE  BEGINNINGS. 

The  German  tongue  belongs  to  the  great  Aryan 
family  of  languages.  At  a  time  very  remote,  the 
parent  speech  from  which  it  was  derived  —  from 
which  too  were  derived  in  the  East  the  Sanscrit  and 
the  Persian,  and  in  the  West  the  Greek,  the  Latin, 
the  Celtic,  and  the  Sclavonic  —  was  spoken  some- 
where upon  the  highlands  in  Central  Asia,  or  per- 
haps upon  a  continent,  now  submerged,  lying  to  the 
south  of  Asia,  of  which  the  great  island- world  of 
Oceanica  is  a  remainder.1  From  indications  con- 
tained in  the  descendant  languages  we  may  know 
that  the  primeval  tribe  was  not  utterly  rude.  Per- 
haps it  was  due  to  a  certain  degree  of  civilization 
they  reached  that  they  gained  the  upper-hand  in  the 
early  world.  At  any  rate,  they  multiplied,  swarmed 
forth  from  their  homes,  sent  emigrants  to  people 
India,  and  westward  to  take  possession  of  Europe. 
The  Hellenic  race,  developed  from  these,  plays  its 
part  in  Greece  ;  as  its  force  expires,  the  Italic  race, 
in  the  neighboring  peninsula,  establishes  the  glory 
of  Rome.  This  in  turn  culminates  and  decays. 
Then  step  upon  the  scene  the  Teutons,  whose  empire 
was  to  last  far  longer,  perhaps  to  be  far  mightier 


Ernst  Haeckel :   Schopfungsgeschichte. 


2  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

and  more  brilliant,  than  its  predecessors  ;  to  what 
extent  grander  we  cannot  say,  for  the  end  is  not 
yet. 

The  name  German,  full  of  picturesque  suggestion 
as  it  is,  "  Shouters  in  battle,"  occurs  first  in  Herod- 
otus, in  the  fifth  century  before  Christ.  They  were 
fully  established  in  Europe  when  history  begins  ;  yet 
we  cannot  assign  their  immigration  to  a  very  ancient 
date,  for  at  our  first  knowledge  of  them  the  remem- 
brance of  their  former  home  remains  vivid  in  the 
people,  expressed  in  legends,  institutions,  and  social 
customs.  In  the  time  of  Alexander  the  Great,  Pyth- 
eas  of  Massilia,  a  wandering  merchant  of  that  colony 
of  Greece,  having  reached  the  Baltic  shore,  gives 
some  account  of  the  Teutons  and  Guthons  ;  he  was, 
however,  not  believed  by  the  writers  of  his  time. 
It  is  probable  that  the  Germanic  wave,  sweeping  into 
Europe  from  the  East,  had  poured  across  Russia  and 
thence  into  Scandinavia,  and  was  now  beginning  to 
work  southward.  Again  there  is  a  period  of  silence 
until  the  second  century  before  Christ,  when  Papir- 
ius  Carbo,  a  Roman  consul  appointed  to  fight  with 
the  Celts  in  Noricum,  comes  unexpectedly  upon  an 
enemy  far  more  powerful,  a  vast  migrating  people, 
whose  men  are  of  huge  strength  and  fierce  courage, 
whose  women  are  scarcely  less  formidable,  whose 
children  are  white-haired,  like  people  grown  aged, 
and  are  bold-eyed  and  vigorous.  Upon  their  great 
white  shields  they  slide  down  the  slopes  of  the  Alps 
to  do  battle ;  they  have  armor  of  brass  and  helmets 
fashioned  into  a  resemblance  of  the  heads  of  beasts 
of  prey.  The  women  fight  by  the  side  of  their  hus- 
bands ;  then,  as  priestesses,  slay  the  prisoners,  letting 


THE    BEGINNINGS.  3 

the  blood  run  into  brazen  caldrons  that  it  may  afford 
an  omen.  Even  the  Romans  are  terrified,  veterans 
though  they  are  from  the  just-ended  struggle  with 
Hannibal.  Papirius  Carbo  goes  down  before  them, 
and  Rome  expects  to  see  in  her  streets  the  blond 
Northman,  as  she  has  just  before  looked  for  the  dark- 
skinned  Numidian.  Caius  Marius  meets  them,  100 
B.  C.,  in  Southern  Gaul,  and  again  in  Northern  Italy, 
the  front  rank  of  their  host — that  they  may  stand 
firm — bound  together,  man  by  man,  with  a  chain, 
and  the  fierce  women  waiting  in  the  rear  with  up- 
lifted axes  to  slay  all  cowards.  But  Marius  comes  off 
conqueror  from  the  corpse-heaped  battle-fields,  and 
Rome  has  a  respite.  Within  half  a  century  they 
grapple  with  the  legionaries  again,  who  this  time 
have  in  their  van  the  sternest  heart  and  strongest 
head  of  his  great  race,  Julius  Ccesar  ;  and  henceforth, 
for  five  centuries,  there  is  scarcely  an  intermission  in 
the  wrestle.  Drusus,  Germanicus,  Varus,  Claudius, 
Julian,  Valens  —  these  are  Roman  names  that  sound 
as  we  go  down  the  ages,  made  memorable  by  strug- 
gle—  sometimes  successful,  sometimes  disastrous  — 
with  the  shouters  in  battle  ;  Ariovistus,  Arminius, 
Maroboduus,  Alaric,  Chnodomar,  Theodoric  — these 
are  the  confronting  Goths.  Dealing  blows  almost 
as  heavy  as  he  receives,  at  length  the  Roman  is 
beaten  to  his  knees,  the  strength  of  the  vanquished, 
as  in  the  struggles  of  fable,  passing  into  the  body  of 
the  victor.  As  he  drops  the  sceptre  it  is  seized  by 
the  Goth,  who  becomes  imbued  moreover  with  his 
civilization  and  his  faith  ;  strengthened  and  enno- 
bled by  the  gain,  he  shapes  the  modern  world. 


4  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

Tacitus,  writing  in  the  first  century  after  Christ, 
with  the  desire  to  bring  back  his  degenerating  coun- 
trymen to  nobler  standards,  portrays  for  their  ad- 
miration the  Germans,  as  a  purer  people.  His  rep- 
resentation is  held  to  be  in  all  its  main  traits  an 
accurate  one,  and  is  the  first  extended  account. 
Tacitus  speaks  of  songs  sung  in  honor  of  the  god 
Tuisco  and  his  son  Mannus,  of  battle-hymns  and 
lays  intended  for  the  expression  of  joy.  There  was 
among  the  Germans  no  special  class  of  singers  like 
the  bards  of  the  Celts,  or  the  scalds  of  the  Scandi- 
navians ;  minstrelsy  was  a  universal  gift  among  the 
people.  They  were  not  utter  barbarians  ;  with  sev- 
eral other  arts,  they  understood  the  use  of  runes,  —  a 
modification  of  picture-writing.  The  songs  of  which 
the  Roman  writer  speaks  have  perished,  but,  as  will 
be  seen,  not  without  leaving  some  trace  of  them- 
selves in  the  poetry  of  the  race.  Christianity,  upon 
its  introduction,  destroyed  their  religion, — in  a 
measure,  their  nationality.  The  songs  were  the 
clamps  which,  more  strongly  than  anything  else, 
fastened  to  them  their  old  heathenism.  The  mis- 
sionaries who  converted  them  did  what  they  could  to 
bring  these  lays  into  oblivion,  encountering  them  all 
the  more  bitterly  perhaps  because  they  themselves 
were  to  a  large  extent  of  a  different,  often  hostile, 
stock, — Celts,  from  the  island  of  Britain. 

At  Upsala,  in  Sweden,  is  preserved  a  venerable 
relic,  the  chief  treasure  of  the  library  of  the  univer- 
sity. It  is  a  book  of  purple  vellum,  whose  pages, 
blackened  and  mildewed  though  they  are,  are  still 
sumptuous,  and  retain,  plainly  legible,  the  charac- 


THE    BEGINNINGS.  5 

ters  written  upon  them  in  silver.  The  binding  of 
the  manuscript  is  also  of  silver,  but  that  is  of  a  later 
date,  the  work  of  a  Swedish  noble  who  wished  to 
enclose  in  a  fitting  manner  one  of  the  most  pre- 
cious relics  of  the  world.  It  is  the  Codex  Argenteus, 
the  silver  manuscript,  the  translation  made  by,  the 
Mceso-Goth,  Ulfilas,  of  the  Bible,  at  the  end  of 
the  fourth  century,  the  earliest  memorial  in  any 
Teutonic  speech.  The  Codex  Argenteus  is  believed 
to  be  very  nearly  contemporary  with  Ulfilas,  if  not 
from  his  own  hand.  This  venerable  personage,  the 
first  name  in  Teutonic  story  which  becomes  famous 
for  other  deeds  than  those  which  belong  to  fierce 
warfare,  was  a  Goth  only  by  adoption,  for  he  was 
descended  from  a  Christian  family  of  Asia  Minor, 
which  had  been  taken  captive.  He  was  thoroughly 
identified,  however,  with  the  race  of  his  captors, 
becoming  their  bishop  at  length,  and  foremost  man. 
He  was  a  zealous  follower  of  Arius,  preaching  to  his 
people  in  Greek,  Latin,  and  Gothic.  An  interesting 
hint  has  been  preserved  that  Ulfilas  was  thoroughly 
penetrated  with  the  spirit  of  the  faith  he  professed, 
in  the  circumstance  that  he  omitted  in  his  transla- 
tion the  Book  of  Kings,  lest  the  minds  of  his  flock 
might  be  stimulated  by  its  warlike  pictures.  The 
translation  is  not  a  mere  slavish  rendering,  but  a 
work  of  intellect,  the  dialect  of  the  woods  asserting 
itself  vigorously  according  to  its  genius,  —  not  strait- 
ened to  conform  to  the  idioms  of  more  polished 
tongues.  When  Ulfilas  died,  at  the  age  of  seventy, 
the  Goths  carried  his  Bible  with  them  to  Italy,  and 
thence  to  Spain.  The  language  in  which  it  is  writ- 


6  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

ten  was  spoken  as  late  as  the  ninth  century,  when 
it  disappeared  as  a  living  tongue,  and  with  it  its  sole 
memorial. 

Greek  church  historians  mention  the  translation, 
and  so  the  world  knew  that  such  a  work  had  been 
per/ormed.  At  length,  after  centuries,  its  tattered 
fragments  were  disinterred  from  the  rubbish  of  an 
old  cloister,  and,  later,  carried  to  Sweden  as  a  prize 
of  the  Thirty  Years'  War.  The  Bible  translation 
of  Ulfilas  is  the  foundation-stone  of  German  litera- 
ture. With  reverent  hands  the  peace-loving  teacher 
placed  it,  going  then  to  his  grave,  in  the  year  388  ; 
it  lay  for  ages  before  the  work  of  construction  was 
continued. 

The  centuries  go.  At  length  we  encounter  a 
mighty  figure  which,  whatever  be  the  department 
of  early  research  engaging  attention,  demands  atten- 
tive consideration.  I  stood  once  on  the  bridge 
which  connects  the  city  of  Frankfort-on-the-Main 
with  its  suburb  of  Sachsenhausen.  Below  me 
rushed  through  the  arches  the  broad  river,  the 
rocks  of  the  shallows  showing  through  the  pale 
green  stream.  Frank-furl , —  ford  of  the  Franks. 
Here  it  was  that,  in  the  dawn  of  the  modern  period, 
a  restless  race,  striving  for  mastery,  poured  back 
and  forth  through  the  river  barrier.  I  looked  over 
the  parapet,  upon  the  venerable  ledges  that  once  felt 
the  Frankish  foot-print.  The  traveller  to-day  gets 
over  dry-shod,  but  the  builders  of  the  bridge  have 
appropriately  set  above  the  central  arch  a  figure 
that  recalls  the  older  memories.  A  flowing  robe 
wraps  the  shoulders  of  the  statue  ;  his  mighty  face 


THE    BEGINNINGS.  7 

is  surmounted  by  an  imperial  crown  ;  his  hands  bear 
the  insignia  of  rule.  So  stands  in  powerful  present- 
ment Karl  the  Great, — Charlemagne, — upon  a  spot 
which  once  knew  him. 

The  world  has  produced  many  an  ambitious  ruler 
during  the  thousand  years  since  his  time  ;  but  no 
one  has  striven  after  anything  higher  than  to  be  set 
by  the  side  of  Karl  the  Great.1  Never,  perhaps,  has 
a  more  extraordinary  result  gone  forth  from  the 
striving  of  a  mortal.  He  was  brought  up  as  a 
soldier,  and  never  was  soldier  greater.  In  youth  he 
descended  into  Italy  to  subdue  the  Lombards.  In 
Spain,  to  the  west,  the  Saracens  were  submitted ; 
the  Sclaves  and  Avars  to  the  east.  To  the  north 
lived  a  race  never  tamed,  descendants  of  the  old 
Cherusci,  who,  with  Hermann,  conquered  Varus, 
taking  their  name  appropriately  from  the  sahs,  the 
short  sword  they  wielded.  At  length  came  the  great 
tamer  of  men  to  the  Saxons,  hitherto  indomitable. 
The  clash  and  tramp  of  the  fierce  campaigns  that 
followed  is  still  audible  in  the  pages  of  old  chron- 
iclers. Not  until  the  entire  youth  of  the  land  was 
exterminated,  and  multitudes  were  exiled,  did  they 
submit.  The  Frankfurt  suburb,  Sachsenhausen,  — 
houses  of  the  Saxons,  — recalls  the  fact  that  there  a 
colony  of  these  tough  strivers  was  established  in  en- 
forced exile.  They  have  some  interest  to  us  ;  out 
from  their  number  had  gone,  some  centuries  before, 
Hengist  and  Horsa  ;  in  England  their  stormy-spirited 
cousins  in  the  Heptarchy  —  at  this  same  time  resist- 


1  Giesebrecht :   Geschichte  der  deutschen  Kaiser-zeit. 


8  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

ing  Danish  encroachment,  judging  culprits  by  jury- 
trial,  and  meeting  for  law-giving  in  the  witenage- 
mote  —  were  at  work  on  the  ground-sills  of  English 
and  American  freedom  and  order. 

But  Karl  the  Great  was  not  a  soldier  through 
blood-thirstiness  or  love  of  tumult.  In  those  wild 
days  the  only  path  to  order  led  across  the  battle- 
field, and  toward  a  nobler  order  the  great  Frank  was 
always  advancing.  At  Christmas,  in  the  year  800, 
in  Rome,  Karl  the  Great  entered  the  Church  of  Saint 
Peter  in  the  robe  of  a  patrician,  the  dignity  he  had 
received  from  his  father.  A  golden  crown  was  set 
upon  his  head ;  the  multitude  raised  the  cry, 
"  Salutation  and  blessing  to  the  great  peace-seeking 
emperor,  Carolus  Augustus."  Pope  Leo  III.  did 
reverence  at  his  feet.  His  empire  was  vast, — all 
France  and  Germany,  most  of  Italy,  a  large  part  of 
Spain.  It  was  won  by  the  sword,  but  ordered  by  a 
power  far  nobler.  His  ideal  was  no  other  than  to 
establish  the  kingdom  of  God  upon  earth,  in  which 
the  emperor  was  to  be  installed  as  God's  vicar,  in 
order  that  he  might  rule  all  people  according  to  the 
divine  will.  He  sent  out  messengers  on  an  apostolic 
mission  to  admonish  the  people  to  lay  virtue  to  their 
hearts  and  remember  the  judgment-seat  of  Christ. 
His  glory  as  a  law-giver  was  greater  than  that  as  a 
soldier.  His  "  capitularies  " — the  collection  of  his 
edicts  and  ordinances  —  were  the  universal  code  of 
the  empire,  a  body  of  wise  provisions,  the  source  of 
inestimable  political  benefits  to  all  Teuton  races, 
even  as  the  civil  life  of  Rome  rested  upon  the 
"Twelve  Tables."  Every  important  problem  with 


THE    BEGINNINGS.  9 

which  politics  in  succeeding  centuries  has  occupied 
itself  was  entertained  by  him, — even  that  of  free 
schools  for  the  people.1  The  results  of  the  striving 
of  Karl  the  Great  were  sometimes  harmful.  He 
went  from  his  own  land  into  Italy,  seeking  to  renew 
the  life  of  the  Roman  empire,  which  had  died  awav. 
Thus  he  turned  outward  the  strength  of  Germany, 
which  was  sorely  needed  at  home, — the  source  of 
great  misfortune  afterward,  whose  bad  effects  are 
still  to  be  felt.  He  established  firmly  the  temporal 
power  of  the  popes,  'whence  came  the  unhappy  strifes 
in  which  the  emperors  of  succeeding  times  lost  their 
dignity,  and  their  people  their  lives.  Great  and  wise 
as  he  was,  he  had  no  superhuman  immunity  from 
mistakes. 

He  was  admirable  in  small  things  as  well  as  great. 
He  was  the  best  farmer  in  his  empire,  saw  to  every- 
thing personally, — even  had  the  reckoning  laid 
before  him  of  every  wolf  slain  on  his  estates.  He 
gave  security  to  trade,  opening  roads  along  the  Rhine 
connecting  the  Mediterranean  with  the  North  Sea ; 
so  from  the  mouth  of  the  Elbe  to  the  middle  of 
the  Danube,  with  branches  to  the  Black  Sea  and 
the  Adriatic.  With  homely  friendliness,  he  cher- 
ished the  middle  and  lower  classes,  seeing  that  the 
welfare  of  the  land  lay  in  their  prosperity.  Princes 
far  and  near  confessed  his  greatness.  Haroun-al- 
Raschid,  the  greatest  of  the  caliphs,  sent  him  an  ele- 
phant and  merry  apes  ;  the  king  of  the  Moors,  a  lion 
and  Numidian  bears  ;  the  emperor  of  Byzantium,  an 


1  GiesebrecM. 


10  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

organ,  the  first  in  the  laud  of  the  Franks.  The  rich 
music  of  fhe  miracle  aroused  astonishment,  as  it 
imitated  now  the  rolling  of  thunder,  now  the  sweet 
tone  of  lyre  and  cymbal.  The  hospitality  of  Karl 
the  Great  was  profuse.  So  many  strangers  came 
to  his  court,  it  became  at  length  a  serious  burden. 
It  was  a  many-colored  company.  Near  the  monk 
from  Italy,  who  could  make  Latin  verses  in  the 
emperor's  praise,  stood,  in  the  ante-room,  the  Sara- 
cen chief  from  Spain,  with  robe  and  turban  covered 
with  jewels.  There  were  conquered  Saxon  chiefs 
in  long  linen  robes,  Lombard  counts  in  short  purple 
mantles  set  off  with  peacock  feathers,  Avars  with 
long  plaited  hair,  gorgeous  ambassadors  from 
Byzantium,  brown  Arabs,  and  slender  Persians. 
These  were  the  guests,  and  among  them  many  a 
wild  warrior  stretched  his  giant  limbs,  spending  the 
interval  between  battle  and  battle  in  boasting  of 
his  achievements.  "How  were  you  pleased  with 
Bohemia ?  " l  it  was  asked  of  one.  « '  The  people  are 
little  worms,"  was  the  reply.  "  Seven  or  eight  I 
spitted,  like  larks,  and  carried  them  hither  and 
thither  on  my  lance.  I  do  not  know  what  they 
grumbled  meanwhile.  It  was  not  worth  while  for 
the  emperor  and  me  to  put  on  our  helmets  on  their 
account." 

It  is  hard  to  touch  upon  a  character  so  command- 
ing as  Karl  the  Great  without  being  led  to  inappro- 
priate lengths  by  the  fascination  he  exerts.  We 
have  now  no  concern  with  the  magnificent  figure 


1  Gustav  Freytag:  Bilder  aus  der  deutschen  Vergangenheit. 


THE    BEGINNINGS.  11 

except  as  he  affected  literature.  He  scarcely  learned 
to  read  until  he  became  a  king,  but  he  was  a  learner 
until  his  death.  That  he  wrote  himself,  we  can 
hardly  say  ;  but  he  stimulated  marvellously  the  intel- 
lectual life  of  others.  Out  of  the  old  German  songs 
which  his  race  —  taught  by  the  monks  —  was  begin- 
ning to  despise,  came  to  the  emperor  the  breath  of  a 
noble  life.  He  comprehended  them  as  no  one  before 
him  had  done,  and  caused  a  collection  to  be  made 
of  the  lays  of  the  ancient  heroes.  To  him  is  due 
also  the  first  German  grammar.  He  encouraged  the 
clergy,  because  he  saw  in  them  the  bearers  of  all 
higher  intellectual  culture  ;  they  in  turn  worked  for 
him  with  enthusiasm,  preaching  in  German  instead  of 
Latin,  and  translating  books.  He  called  to  his  as- 
sistance the  first  scholars  of  Italy  and  England  :  not- 
ably, Peter  of  Pisa,  Paulus  Diaconus,  Alcuin,  and 
Eginhard.  He  allowed  no  original  impulse  of  the 
Teutonic  nature  to  fail,  but  disciplined  each  one,  en- 
nobled it,  and  so  made  it  capable  of  maturing  more 
beautiful  blossoms  and  more  useful  fruit  than  before.1 
He  set  within  the  earthy  Teuton  a  Promethean  spark, 
kindling  within  him  the  possibilities  of  a  fine  spirit- 
ual and  intellectual  life, — a  fire  that  has  not  been 
quenched  through  the  ages.  No  other  man  in  all 
succeeding  time  has  so  influenced  German  develop- 
ment. No  human  being  has  ever  made  a  deeper 
impress  upon  the  world.  The  plain  citizen  revered 
him  as  the  fatherly  friend  of  the  people  and  the  just 
judge  ;  chivalry  held  him  to  be  the  first  of  knights  ; 

1  Giesebrecht 


12  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

the  Church  has  made  him  a  saint ;  he  is  as  famous  in 
poetry  as  in  history. 

Impressive  pictures  have  came  down  to  us  respect- 
ing his  person  and  bearing.  In  height  he  was  seven 
times  the  length  of  his  own  foot,  and  nobly  propor- 
tioned. His  body  never  hindered  his  spirit.  He 
fought  with  wild  bulls  in  the  forest  of  Ardennes, 
such  was  his  force,  and  for  more  than  thirty  years  he 
had  no  sickness.  His  brow  was  open,  his  eyes  large 
and  quick,  his  hair  thick  and  fine,  and,  in  age,  of 
venerable  whiteness  ;  his  countenance  cheerful.  His 
usual  garb  was  a  linen  robe,  woven  at  home  by  the 
women  of  his  family,  and  over  it  the  flowing  Frisian 
mantle.  He  avoided  pomp,  although  about  him 
were  vassals  appointed  to  be  models  of  splendid 
knightly  discipline.  These  paladins  surrounded  him, 
it  is  said,  as  the  stars  the  sun  ;  he  darkened  them  all. 

There  is  no  character  concerning  whom  the  tradi- 
tions are  more  picturesque.  In  the  Germanic  Mu- 
seum at  Nuremberg  I  remember  a  great  painting  by 
Kaulbach,  illustrating  what  is  perhaps  the  most  strik- 
ing story  of  all.  When  Karl  the  Great  died,  at 
Aachen,  in  814,  a  sepulchre  was  constructed  in  which 
he  was  placed,  sitting  upon  a  throne — not  in  his  sim- 
ple Frisian  mantle,  but  in  the  royal  pomp  which  in  life 
he  had  sometimes  upon  occasion  assumed  —  in  im- 
perial robes,  with  a  crown  upon  his  head  and  a  book 
of  the  Gospels,  bound  in  gold,  upon  his  knees.  A 
century  and  a-half  later  the  young  emperor,  Otto 
II.,  after  a  drinking-bout,  broke  into  the  tomb  with 
a  party  of  boon  companions.  There  sat  upon  the 
throne  the  majestic  figure,  unwasted,  save  that  the 


THE    BEGINNINGS.  13 

beard,  grown  long,  swept  his  breast.  It  was  as  if 
decay  hud  not  dared  to  approach  him  ;  he  was  too 
great  to  crumble  into  dust ;  the  tomb-breakers  re- 
coiled abashed.  It  is  a  fine  subject  for  Kaulbach, 
who  renders  it  with  great  power,  —  the  gloom  of  the 
sepulchre,  the  recoiling  revellers,  and  before  them 
the  towering  form  of  the  buried  emperor,  with  his 
sweeping  beard,  and  the  golden  book  of  the  Gospels 
resting  upon  his  knees. 

At  Vienna  the  visitor  goes  to  see  the  treasure- 
chamber  of  the  House  of  Hapsburg.  It  is  an  Alad- 
din's cave,  where,  from  the  heaped-up  abundance  of 
gold  and  precious  stones,  the  heads  of  people  are 
well-nigh  turned,  and  the  guards  stationed  every- 
where are  obliged  to  watch,  not  only  those  who  might 
rob,  but  those  who  might  become  insane.  There  one 
may  see  extraordinary  relics  by  the  hundred.  The 
metal  circlet  yonder,  Wallenstein  held  when  he  dealt 
with  incantations  in  his  gloomy  seclusion.  This  cra- 
dle the  great  Napoleon  rocked,  his  heart  full  of  the 
tenderest  yearning  that  ever  filled  it,  for  it  held  for 
him  his  only  child,  the  baby  king  of  Rome.  There 
hangs  the  great  Florentine  diamond,  —  the  fourth  in 
the  world,  —  which  was  worn  in  battle  as  a  talisman 
by  Charles  the  Bold  of  Burgundy,  and  found  upon 
his  body  after  the  battle  of  Nancy,  in  1477;  and 
there,  more  interesting  than  these,  is  the  great  im- 
perial crown  of  Germany,  coming  down  from  an  un- 
known antiquity,  passed  from  brow  to  brow  down 
the  long  line  of  kaisers,  with  its  huge  uncut  jewels 
and  heavy  masses  of  gold,  rudely  wrought  by  some 
primeval  artificer.  But  more  interesting  than  all, 


14  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

to  me,  was  a  relic  side  by  side  with  this,  —  the  golden 
book  of  the  Gospels  which  rested  so  long  upon  the 
knees  of  Charlemagne  in  the  tomb  at  Aachen  ! 

The  great  empire  of  Karl  the  Great  fell,  at  his 
death,  into  confusion,  and  at  first  all  that  had  been 
trained  seemed  to  be  lost.  Not  until  one  hundred 

C5 

years  later  do  we  see  signs  that  once  more  a  spirit  of 
order  is  beginning  to  move  on  the  face  of  the  chaos. 
At  the  beginning  of  the  tenth  century  appears 
Henry  the  Fowler,  a  Saxon,  and  for  the  next  hundred 
years  the  rulers  of  the  empire  come  from  the  tough 
race  which  Karl  the  Great  hacf  found  it  such  a  task 
to  subdue.  There  are  great  names  in  the  time  during 
which  the  Saxon  dynasty  is  powerful ;  so  too  among 
the  Franconian  princes  who  succeed  them.  As  re- 
gards the  present  subject,  however,  those  ages  are 
nearly  dumb  ;  the  history  of  their  literature  is  almost 
a  blank.  When  Karl  the  Great  had  gone,  the  monks 
destroyed  the  collection  he  had  made  of  the  poetry 
of  the  nation.  In  the  cloister  of  Reichenau,  in 
the  year  821,  we  know  that  twelve  heroic  poems 
were  preserved  which  were  part  of  it,  and  scholars 
are  not  entirely  without  hope  of  some  day  finding 
them  ;  but  it  has  not  yet  come  to  pass.  The  sole 
fragment  of  heroic  song  extant  from  this  period  is 
the  Hildebrand's  Lied, — Lay  of  Hildebrand,  —  con- 
cerning which  the  interesting  and  probable  conject- 
ure has  been  made  that  its  preservation  is  due  to 
the  leisure — probably  the  ennui — of  two  old  monks 
who  had  once  been  soldiers.  Hundreds  of  the  rough 
fighters  of  those  days,  when  the  strength  of  youth  had 
departed,  sought  the  asylum  of  the  monasteries, — 


THE    BEGINNINGS.  15 

the  head  that  had  worn  the  helmet  submitting  to  the 
tonsure.  The  songs  of  their  warrior  life  would  re- 
main in  their  memories,  and  in  the  tedium  of  the 
cloister  what  more  natural  than  that  they  should 
sometimes  be  sung  under  the  breath,  full  of  hea- 
thenism though  they  were  !  Once,  at  such  a  time, 
while  one  veteran  sang  or  dictated  another  wrote 
down  on  blank  leaves  at  the  beginning  and  end  of  a 
service-book  the  profane,  half-Pagan  lines  of  the 
Hildebrand's  Lied.  It  was  its  fate  to  be  handed 
down,  and  the  parchment  is  kept  at  Cassel  as  one  of 
the  principal  manuscript  treasures  of  Germany.1 

To  the  songs  of  the  heroes  succeeds  a  literature  of 
the  Church.  Of  such  culture  as  existed  the  monas- 
teries were  the  seats,  noteworthy  among  which  were 
Fulda,  in  Hesse,  and  Saint  Gallen,  in  Switzerland. 
From  these  came  many  translations  and  paraphrases 
which  have  no  interest  except  of  a  linguistic  kind. 
A  work  of  a  different  order  is  the  Heliand,  meaning 
the  Saviour,  a  poem  of  the  tenth  century,  from  the 
lately  converted  Saxons,  which  has  interesting  traits, 
representing  Christ  in  the  character  of  a  great  prince 
of  the  German  people.  The  Ludwig's  Lied  cele- 
brates a  victory  of  Louis  the  Pious,  son  of  Karl  the 
Great,  over  the  Normans.  Now  too,  at  Weissem- 
bourg,  in  Alsace,  the  monk  Otfried  writes  his  gospel 
harmony,  a  paraphrase  of  the  evangelists,  of  some 
interest  as  being  the  first  example  of  German  rhyme. 

With  these  few  pages  the  beginnings  of  our  sub- 
ject are  sufficiently  considered.  To  the  twelfth 


1  Vilmar :   Geschichte  der  deutschen  Literatur. 


16  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

century  the  story  of  German  literature  is  a  meagre 
one;  and  who  will  wonder?  The  wild  Teutons, 
wandering  through  unknown  ages,  in  unknown 
places,  encounter  at  length  the  outposts  of  Rome. 
With  eyes  unopened  to  civilization,  they  strike  at 
the  new  foe,  who  at  length  goes  down  before  their 
barbarian  fury.  Little  by  little  Goth  and  Vandal 
penetrate  to  the  centre  of  Roman  power  ;  gradually 
to  their  savage  souls  comes  a  sense  of  the  grace  and 
majesty  they  are  overwhelming,  and  at  length  they 
stand  before  the  ruins  they  have  made,  awe-struck.1 
For  a  next  step  they  reverently  appropriate  the 
culture  and  faith  of  the  empire  they  have  vanquished. 
Upon  the  brow  of  the  warrior  the  brazen  helmet 
takes  the  place  of  the  head  of  the  wolf  or  the  bear 
slain  in  the  chase  ;  life  is  no  longer  regulated  by 
the  rude  forest  legislation,  but  by  the  Pandects  ; 
in  place  of  the  victims  offered  to  Tuisco  and  Mannus 
comes  the  symbolic  sacrifice  of  the  mass.  But  as 
the  Teutons  pressed  upon  Rome,  they  in  turn  are 
pressed  upon.  To  the  eastward  the  Avars  must  be 
beaten  back ;  to  the  westward  the  fanatic  Saracens, 
sweeping  through  Spain  toward  the  heart  of  Europe. 
Soon  comes  war  to  the  death  with  the  encroaching 
Sclave  ;  and  scarcely  is  he  restrained  when  the  Hun 
is  upon  the  people  with  sword  and  scourge.  The 
story  of  those  times  is  one  of  mighty  striving  for  life 
and  place.  The  rudely  wrought  gold  and  uncut 
jewels  of  that  old  imperial  crown  at  Vienna  rest 
upon  the  head  of  many  a  powerful  leader.  The 


Bryce :   The  Holy  Roman  Empire. 


THE    BEGINNINGS.  17 

pages  of  the  chroniclers  are  dark  now  with  tales  of 
treachery,  now  bright  with  heroism ;  now  lamenta- 
tion over  a  province  devastated,  now  rejoicing  over 
success.  The  Teuton  wins  the  mastery  ;  rapine  and 
death  are  no  longer  constantly  near  at  hand  ;  tumult 
and  anxiety  subside  ;  there  is  space  at  length  for  the 
graces  and  refinements  of  life. 

It  has  been  said  that  German  poetry  has  had  two 
periods  of  bloom  :  the  later,  from  the  middle  of  the 
eighteenth  century  through  the  first  quarter  of  the 
nineteenth  ;  the  earlier,  from  the  end  of  the  first 
quarter  of  the  twelfth  century  to  the  middle  of  the 
thirteenth.1  To  this  earlier  period  we  have  now 
come.  We  leave  behind  the  Old  High  German, 
which  has  been  the  vehicle  of  the  earliest  literature  ; 
the  Middle  High  German  has  supplanted  it.  In 
place  of  the  few  memorials  nearly  valueless  except 
for  historical  and  linguistic  purposes,  we  come  upon 
a  literature  abundant  in  quality,  and  in  every  way 
interesting  in  its  character.  From  the  year  1137  to 
1254  the  emperors  of  Germany  were  from  the  great 
family  of  Hohenstauffen,  rulers  superbly  gifted, 
under  whom  the  land  attained  such  grandeur  as  it 
has  never  since  possessed.  First  of  the  line  stands 
the  mighty  Barbarossa,  Red-Beard.  Unmatched 
was  his  power  in  Germany,  Italy,  the  Holy  Land. 
Great  in  council  he  was,  great  in  strife.  Before  the 
door  of  his  tent  was  hung,  high  upon  a  lance,  his 
shield,  as  a  sign  that  he  was  ready,  upon  summons, 


1  D.  P.  Strauss. 

2 


18  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

to  redress  all  wrongs.1  His  life  went  out  in  Syria, 
and  presently,  at  the  beginning  of  the  thirteenth 
century,  a  figure  not  less  fine  inherits  the  sceptre, — 
his  grandson,  Friedrich  II.  With  the  politics  of 
the  period  we  have  no  concern.  In  the  world  of 
letters  a  brilliancy  may  be  discerned  commensurate 
with  the  power  and  prestige  which  the  nation  had 
reached.  As  the  Germans  emerge  from  the  night  of 
of  barbarism,  for  a  time,  as  we  have  seen,  the  monks 
alone  are  the  writers,  —  at  work  with  scriptural  com- 
ment, with  homily,  now  and  then  with  a  chronicle. 
With  the  Hohenstauffen,  however,  the  courts  of 
princes  become  the  centres  of  culture  ;  from  South- 
ern France  the  lyres  of  the  troubadours  strike  the 
key-note  of  chivalric  song,  and  in  Germany  springs 
up  the  race  of  Minnesingers. 

Let  us  call  up  a  picture  of  the  mediaeval  life  in 
order  to  understand  the  conditions  under  which  the 
poetry  that  has  come  down  to  us  from  this  time 
took  its  rise.  The  forest  is  disappearing,  but  the 
edge  of  the  horizon  is  yet  wooded,  and  many  parts 
of  the  plain  are  still  heavily  shadowed.  In  low 
places,  between  cultivated  ground,  are  frequent 
ponds  and  marshes.  The  number  of  villages  and 
farms  is  probably  not  less  than  at  the  present  time, 
although  they  are  not  so  populous.  Between  the 
crop  and  the  wood,  upon  some  mountain  spur  or 
the  edge  of  the  wilderness,  rises  the  chapel  of  a  saint. 
In  the  villages  everywhere  are  towers,  whence  on 
feast-days,  bells  ring  from  one  plain  to  another 


1  Von  Raumer :   Geschichte  der  Hohenstauffen. 


THE    BEGINNINGS.  19 

through  the  whole  land,  to  whose  light  peal  the 
mighty  humming  of  a  greater  bell  from  some  town 
in  the  distance  gives  the  foundation-tone.  In  the 
river  valleys,  in  the  midst  of  houses  and  surrounded 
by  strong  walls,  rise  the  towers  of  cathedrals.  On 
the  other  side,  opposite  the  town,  stands,  on  the 
hill-sumrnit,  a  walled  tower,  with  narrow  windows, 
the  possession  of  the  lord  of  the  region,  and  the 
home  of  some  trooper- vassal,  who  keeps  house  up 
there,  —  not  to  the  joy  of  the  peasant.  Cities  have 
just  sprung  up,  as  it  were,  overnight ;  in  the  case 
of  many  it  cannot  be  said  when  they  began,  nor 
did  their  builders  know  how  immeasurable  was  to 
be  the  benefit  to  their  descendants.1 

In  the  winter,  the  sun  setting  early,  the  knight 
and  his  retainers  are  driven  to  shelter  from  the  foray 
or  hunting,  which  occupy  the  short  day ;  the  feast 
is  disposed  of, — then  come  many  hours  of  unbroken 
darkness  before  the  day  begins  again.  Consider 
how  dull  the  winter  evenings  must  have  been  in  a 
German  mediaeval  castle !  What  substitutes  had 
they  for  such  intellectual  excitements  as  are  now 
supplied  by  our  newspapers,  our  prolific  literature 
of  fiction,  our  theatres,  and  highly-developed  music? 
Often  the  snow  chokes  the  narrow  horse-paths 
through  the  forest,  so  that  the  day  as  well  as  the 
night  must  pass  in  inaction.  How  spend  the  weary 
hours  but  by  hearing  the  minstrel !  He  has  been 
trained  to  arms,  but  he  devotes  himself  in  the  prime 
of  life  to  the  study  of  versification,  wandering  on 


Freytag:   Bilder  aus  der  deutschen  Vergangenheit. 


20  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

from  court  to  court,  and  there,  in  the  presence  of 
ladies,  singing  his  songs  to  tunes  of  his  own  com- 
posing. His  face  is  studious  and  melancholy ;  he 
accompanies  himself  with  a  lute.  The  logs  are 
heaped  high  in  the  fire-place  ;  the  torches  flare  and 
smoke  about  the  walls.  In  the  wavering  glare  the 
cups  of  ale  and  trenchers  loaded  with  flesh  stand  on 
the  table.  The  knight  and  his  followers — their 
armor  thrown  aside,  but  their  leathern  garments 
showing  the  stain  and  imprint  from  the  steel  that 
so  often  covers  them  —  alternately  revel  and  listen. 
Somewhat  apart,  on  a  dais  perhaps,  or  in  some 
overlooking  balcony,  sits  the  castle's  mistress,  with 
her  ladies.  The  labor  of  the  castle  household  goes 
forward.  The  yeoman  strings  his  bow  afresh,  or 
replenishes  his  quivers  ;  skins  are  sewed  into  gar- 
ments ;  jesses  are  made  for  the  falcons  and  leashes 
for  the  dogs  ;  the  ladies  are  busy  with  the  embroid- 
ery of  scarfs  ;  the  serving- women  go  in  and  out. 
Meanwhile  the  minstrel  strikes  vigorously  his  rude 
instrument,  singing  song  after  song,  or  reciting  by 
the  hour  his  rhythmical  story.  His  voice  rings 
often  through  a  tumult ;  he  closes  his  song,  to  re- 
sume it  the  next  day  if  the  storm  prevents  the  chase, 
or  when  evening  again  comes  round. 

What  the  knight  had  in  the  castle  the  peasant 
and  burgher  in  the  plain  below  would  imitate  in  a 
humbler  way.  At  the  other  end  of  the  scale,  in  the 
courts  of  princes,  there  was  a  scene  far  more  bril- 
liant,— halls  with  magnificent  hangings;  guests  in 
garments  bought  of  merchants  fresh  from  Venice, 
laden  with  splendid  fabrics  from  the  East ;  the  gleam 


THE    BEGINNINGS.  21 

of  gold,  the  flash  of  jewels.  When  it  happened 
that  the  castle  lord,  or  the  master  of  the  hut,  or  the 
king  in  the  palace,  was  a  man  of  ready  mind  and 
lively  fancy,  we  can  understand  how  he  too  should 
have  sometimes  remembered  strains,  to  repeat  them, 
or  indeed  himself  have  invented  lays.  So  did  many 
a  plain  farmer  ;  so  did  Walther  von  der  Vogelweide 
and  Hartmann  von  Aue  ;  in  a  higher  rank  so  did 
Duke  Heinrich  of  Breslau,  the  Kaiser  Friedrich 
II.,  and  the  princes,  his  sons,  and,  in  another  land, 
Richard  Occur  de  Lion. 

Of  the  poetry  of  the  Hohenstauffen  period  a 
broad  division  into  two  classes  may  be  made  :  first, 
what  was  current  among  the  people  ;  second,  what 
was  liked  in  the  courts  and  castles.  To  the  popular 
poetry  belong  certain  great  epics,  founded  upon  na- 
tional traditions  which  for  centuries,  the  monks  had 
tried  to  crush  out, — with  partial  success,  —  and  yet 
which,  tough  as  the  bears  in  the  woods  from  which 
they  came,  in  many  instances  lived  on  tenaciously 
in  the  mouths  of  the  folk.  In  the  courts  and 
castles,  however,  when  the  crusades  had  begun  to 
bring  the  Germans  into  contact  with  the  outside 
world,  —  the  chivalry  of  France  sweeping  along  the 
highways  and  down  the  streams,  and  the  Italian 
cities,  with  their  finer  life,  becoming  known,  —  there 
was  an  aping  of  foreign  models ;  the  old  national 
material  seemed  far  too  rough,  and  the  minstrels 
translated  or  rewrought  the  stories  of  troubadour 
and  trouvere.  The  line  of  division  between  the  two 
classes  is  not  precise.  Although  it  was  utterly  un- 
fashionable, a  national  subject  sometimes  received  a 


22  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

hearing  in  a  castle  hall ;  a  story  of  the  troubadours 
sometimes  reached  a  peasant's  health.  There  are 
poets  coming  from  both  directions  who  approach  — 
sometimes  stand  on  —  the  dividing  line.1  Speaking 
generally,  however,  the  broad  division  may  be  made 
into  Court  and  Popular  Poetry ;  the  former  is  char- 
acterized by  a  preference  for  foreign  subjects  and 
a  finer  structure ;  the  latter  by  a  preference  for 
Teutonic  traditions,  and  by  a  rougher  form.  The 
Popular  Poetry  will  be  first  considered. 


August  Koberstein :  Geschichte  der  deutschen  National  Literatur. 


CHAPTER    II. 

THE    NIBELUNGEN  LIED. 

Of  the  bequests  made  to  us  of  the  Popular  Poetry 
of  the  time  of  the  Hohenstauffen,  by  far  the  most 
important,  in  fact  the  most  important  literary  me- 
morial of  any  kind,  is  the  epic  of  between  nine  and 
ten  thousand  lines  known  as  the  Nibelungen  Lied. 
The  manuscripts  which  have  preserved  for  us  the 
poem  come  from  about  the  year  1200.  For  full  a 
thousand  years  before  that,  however,  many  of  the 
lays  from  which  it  was  composed  had  been  in  exist- 
ence ;  some  indeed  proceed  from  a  still  remoter 
antiquity,  sung  by  primitive  minstrels  when  the 
Germans  were  at  their  wildest,  untouched  by  Chris- 
tianity or  civilization.  These  lays  had  been  handed 
down  orally,  until  at  length  a  poet  of  genius  elabo- 
rated them  and  intrusted  them  to  parchment.  What 
may  have  been  that  poet's  name  cannot  be  said  with 
certainty.  Although  no  doubt  a  man  of  courtly 
culture,  he  took  the  songs  current  on  the  lips  of 
the  people,  racy  with  their  life,  adapting  them  with 
skill,  while  retaining  all  their  spirit.  The  work  of 
the  unknown  genius  who  wrote  the  Nibelungen  Lied 
has  come,  in  our  time,  to  be  prized  immeasurably. 
It  is  set  side  by  side  with  Homer ;  it  is  reverently 
studied  by  minds  of  the  highest  power ;  it  has  be- 


24  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

come  a  text-book  in  the  schools,  as  containing  fig- 
ures worthy  to  become  the  ideals  of  youth. 

Who  are  the  Nibelungeji,  concerning  whom  the 
lay  is  written  ?  It  is  a  race  of  supernatural  attri- 
butes who  are  possessed  of  a  certain  wonderful 
treasure  or  hoard.  Siegfried,  the  hero  of  the  poem, 
has  wrested  from  them  this  treasure,  and  thereby 
obtained  immeasurable  wealth.  He  has  also  found 
a  mantle  which  has  power  to  make  its  wearer  invisi- 
ble, and  a  sword,  "  Balmung,"  a  blade  of  the  trust- 
iest. "Vain  were  it  to  enquire  where  that  Nibe- 
lungen  land  especially  is ;  its  very  name  is  Nebel- 
land,  —  mist-land.  The  Nibelungen,  that  muster  in 
thousands  and  tens  of  thousands,  though  they 
march  to  the  Rhine  or  Danube,  and  we  see  their 
strong  limbs  and  shining  armor,  we  could  almost 
fancy  to  be  children  of  the  air."  l 

We  cannot  tell  where  their  land  is.  Siegfried  has 
subdued  them  and  taken  their  treasure  ;  henceforth 
he  and  his  followers  are  called  Nibelungen.  In  fact, 
to  whomsoever,  for  the  time  being,  the  treasure  has 
been  transferred,  the  name  Nibelungen  is  assigned. 
After  Siegfried's  death,  when,  as  we  shall  see,  the 
hoard  falls  to  his  slayers,  they  in  turn  are  spoken  of 
as  the  Nibelungen,  the  name  passing  with  the  pos- 
session. Before  the  opening  of  the  poem,  Siegfried, 
the  hero,  has  made  himself  famous.  He  has  not 
only  conquered  the  mysterious  Nibelungen,  but  slain 
in  fight  a  remarkable  dragon  ;  bathing  in  his  blood, 
he  has  made  himself  invulnerable. 


Carlyle :   The  Nibelungen  Lied. 


THE   NIBELUNGEN  LIED.  25 

I  will  give  now,  without  further  preface,  the 
story  of  the  Nibelungen  Lied,  reserving  for  another 
chapter  a  more  particular  account  of  its  origin  and 
preservation,  and  a  development  of  its  beauties  and 
lessons.  In  arranging  the  story  for  a  brief  pre- 
sentment, I  have  made  much  use  of  the  account 
of  the  enthusiastic  literary  historian,  Vilmar,  the 
most  picturesque  and  beautiful  which  I  have  met, 
and  preserving  well,  too,  the  spirit  of  the  orig- 
inal. The  poem  has  simple  and  child-like  traits ; 
it  has,  too,  aspects  of  horror ;  aspects,  too,  of  the 
highest  nobleness.  We  also  are  Teutons.  Think, 
as  you  read,  that  you  are  looking  into  the  fore- 
time of  our  own  race,  beholding  the  lineaments  of 
our  fathers  long  ago. 

In  the  land  of  the  Burgundians,  in  the  old  royal 
castle  at  Worms  on  the  Rhine,  Kriemhild,  the  noble 
daughter  of  a  king,  after  her  father's  early  death, 
grew  into  blooming  maidenhood.  Dreams  full  of 
presage  for  the  future  hovered  about  her  in  her  sleep, 
in  the  quiet  retirement  in  which  she  passed  her 
youth.  She  dreamed  she  was  cherishing  a  falcon, 
when  two  eagles  swooped  down  and  killed  it  before 
her  eyes.  Full  of  sorrow,  she  awoke  and  told  her 
dream  to  Ute,  her  mother.  "  The  falcon,"  said  the 
mother,  "  is  a  noble  spouse  for  whom  thou  art  des- 
tined ;  may  God  preserve  him  from  being  early 
lost."  "Unless  I  love  a  hero,"  said  Kriemhild, 
"  I  will  remain  a  maid  until  death." 

Cheerful  in  his  joyous  and  manly  youth,  Siegfried, 
meanwhile,  in  the  Netherlands,  son  of  an  old  king 


26  GERMAN   LITERATURE. 

and  queen,  already  had  grown  from  a  boy  into  a 
hero,  and  wandered  through  many  lands.  He  heard 
at  length  about  the  beautiful  maid  at  Worms,  far  up 
the  Rhine.  In  order  to  woo  her  he  left  home,  with 
his  followers.  Before  the  king's  palace  at  Worms 
the  strangers  came  riding,  their  horses  and  trap- 
pings finer  than  were  ever  before  seen.  Hagen  of 
Tronei,  retainer  of  the  king,  is  sent  for — who  knows 
all  foreign  lands — to  tell  who  they  are.  "They 
must  be  princes  or  princes'  messengers,"  he  says. 
"  Wherever  they  come  from,  they  are  noble-spirited 
heroes.  It  can  be  only  Siegfried  who  rides  there  so 
proudly,  —  he  who  conquered  the  race  of  the  Nibe- 
lungen,  and  took  from  them  the  uncounted  treasure 
of  jewels  and  red  gold  ;  who  won  in  battle  the  man- 
tle that  makes  one  invisible  ;  the  same  Siegfried  who 
also  slew  the  dragon  and  bathed  himself  in  his  blood, 
so  that  his  skin  became  as  invulnerable  as  horn. 
Such  heroes  we  should  receive  as  friends."  Gun- 
ther,  the  king,  and  his  brethren,  Gernot  and  Giese- 
ler, — brethren,  too,  of  Kriemhild, — receive  him 
hospitably.  Joyous  tournaments  take  place.  Kriem- 
hild catches  stolen  glances  from  her  window,  and 
forgets  her  work  and  play.  Siegfried  remains  a 
year  at  Worms  before  he  sees  the  maid  he  has  come 
to  woo.  Meantime  he  marches  forth,  as  a  warlike 
comrade  of  the  heroes  of  Burgundy,  to  strife. 
Messengers  hurry  back  from  the  army  to  the  Rhine 
to  announce  victory.  "  Now  give  me  good  news," 
says  Kriemhild.  "  I  will  give  you  all  my  gold." 
"  No  one,"  says  the  herald,  "  has  ridden  more  nobly 
into  battle  than  the  guest  from  the  Netherlands. 


THE    NIBELUNGEN   LIED.  27 

The  captives  you  will  see,  his  heroic  might  subdued 
and  sent  hither."  The  king's  daughter  bade  give 
the  messenger  ten  marks  of  gold,  and  rich  clothing. 
Then  she  stood  silent  at  the  narrow  window,  watch- 
ing the  road  on  which  the  victors  were  to  return  to 
the  Rhine,  until  she  saw  the  rejoicing  knights  and  the 
happy  tumult  at  the  castle  gates.  At  length  a  great 
tournament  is  held,  on  the  joyful  Easter  festival ; 
from  far  and  near  approach  the  highest  and  the  best. 
Then,  at  last,  standing  at  her  mother's  side,  sur- 
rounded by  a  hundred  chamberlains,  who  carry 
swords,  and  a  hundred  glittering  ladies  of  noble 
rank,  Kriemhild  appears  in  public,  and  she  goes 
forth  like  the  dawn  from  troubled  clouds, — in  the 
gentle  brightness  of  youth  and  beauty.  "  How  can 
I  help  loving  her,"  says  Siegfried.  "  It  is  a  foolish 
illusion,  but  I  would  rather  die  than  abandon  thee." 
The  hero  bends  courteously  before  her ;  the  might 
of  love  draws  them  towards  each  other,  but  as  yet 
no  word  is  exchanged.  At  length,  after  the  mass 
with  which  the  festival  begins,  the  maid  thanks  the 
hero  for  the  brave  help  rendered  to  her  brothers. 
"  That  was  done  in  your  service,  Kriemhild,"  is  his 
reply  ;  but  when  the  sports  are  done,  he  prepares  to 
return  to  his  home,  heavy-hearted,  for  he  despairs 
of  success. 

There  was  a  queen,  Brunhild,  beyond  the  sea,  of 
wonderful  beauty,  but  also  of  wonderful  strength. 
In  contest  with  men  who  desired  her  love  she  leaped, 
and  threw  the  lance  ;  whoever  was  defeated  was  be- 
headed ;  only  to  a  victor  would  she  surrender  her- 
self. Already  had  many  a  brave  man  sought  her, 


28  GERMAN   LITERATURE. 

only  never  more  to  return.  Then  Gunther,  king  of 
the  Burgundians,  resolved  to  risk  his  life  for  her 
love,  and  summoned  Siegfried  to  help  him.  Sieg- 
fried consents,  if  Gunther  will  give  him  for  his  wife 
his  sister,  Kriemhild.  This,  Gunther  vows  to  do, 
and  the  ship  is  prepared  for  departure,  furnished 
forth  with  gold-colored  shields  and  rich  garments. 
After  a  sail  of  twelve  days  they  reach  the  Isenstein, 
where  Brunhild  rules.  Now  begin  the  contests  ;  but 
Gunther,  unable  to  maintain  himself  against  the 
demon  power  of  the  maid,  is  helped  by  Siegfried, 
who  puts  on  his  obscuring  mantle,  to  fight  invisibly. 
He  stands  at  Gunther' s  side,  and  bids  him  only 
make  the  motions  of  a  fighter.  Now  Brunhild 
throws  the  spear,  and  the  sparks  fly,  as  from  flames 
blown  by  the  wind,  from  the  shield  of  her  oppo- 
nent, upon  which  it  strikes.  Siegfried  trembles, 
but  soon  stands  firm  again,  and  throws  Gunther's 
spear  at  the  maid  with  yet  wilder  strength.  She 
catches  it  upon  her  shield,  but  falls  ;  then,  angry  at 
her  defeat,  she  runs  to  the  stone  which  has  been 
brought  into  the  ring  by  twelve  heroes.  She,  how- 
ever, raises  it  alone,  and  with  her  powerful  arm 
slings  it  far  away,  then  leaps  after  it,  so  that  her 
armor  rings  aloud.  But  Siegfried,  tall  and  quick, 
hurls  the  stone  far  beyond  the  mark  of  the  maid  ; 
then  catching  the  king  under  his  arm,  he  leaps  far- 
ther than  the  leap  of  Brunhild.  The  queen  imme- 
diately turns  to  her  retinue:  "Maids  and  men, 
approach;  you  are  all  to  be  subject  to  King 
Gunther."  The  end  is  reached.  As  Brunhild  is 
betrothed  with  Gunther,  so  is  Kriemhild  with  Sieg- 


THE    NIBELUNGEN   LIED,  29 

fried.  In  sight  of  the  kings,  Kriemhild  receives  the 
kiss  which  plights  their  faith.  But  tears  fell  down 
the  cheeks  of  the  proud,  beautiful  Brunhild.  As- 
tonished and  anxious,  because  his  conscience  accuses 
him,  Gunther  asks  for  the  cause  of  the  tears,  and 
Brunhild  answers:  "For  Kriemhild,  thy  sister,  I 
weep,  because  she  is  to  be  debased  by  marriage  to 
a  vassal." 

Brunhild,  although  vanquished,  again  shows  her 
unmanageable  warrior  spirit.  On  the  evening  of  the 
wedding-day  she  wrestles  again  with  Gunther,  who, 
no  longer  having  Siegfried's  help,  is  shamefully 
vanquished,  and  bound  with  the  girdle  of  his  bride. 
She  winds  this  about  his  hands  and  feet,  and  hangs 
him  by  it  to  a  hook  fastened  in  the  Avail ;  he  is  set 
free  only  after  much  begging.  Sad  and  ashamed,  the 
next  day  he  tells  Siegfried,  who  again  assumes  his 
obscuring  mantle,  wrestles  with  Brunhild,  and  a 
second  time  subdues  her. 

For  a  time  all  misfortune  slumbers.  Siegfried 
with  his  young  wife  goes  joyfully  home  to  his  par- 
ents. His  father  yields  to  his  son  crown  and  king- 
dom. For  ten  years  they  enjoy  their  happiness  in 
entire  peace,  —  Siegfried,  ruler  of  the  Netherlands, 
and  of  the  realm  of  the  Nibelungen,  with  their  innu- 
merable treasures,  the  most  powerful  of  kings ; 
Kriemhild  the  most  beautiful  and  happy  of  queens. 
But  in  Brunhild's  heart  the  anger  still  burns. 
"  How  does  Kriemhild  dare  behave  so  proudly  to- 
ward us,"  she  cries,  "  as  not  to  visit  us  once  in  all 
this  time.  Is  not  Siegfried  your  vassal?  Yet  for 
ten  long  years  he  has  rendered  us  no  service." 


30  GERMAN   LITERATURE. 

Gunther  yields,  and  sends  messengers  to  Siegfried. 
They  invite  him  to  a  great  festival,  which  at  the  sol- 
stice—  the  old  German  festival  time  —  is  to  be  cele- 
brated at  the  Burgundian  court  at  Worms.  With  a 
retinue  of  a  thousand  nobles,  Siegfried  and  Kriem- 
hild,  accompanied  by  Siegfried's  father,  in  the  se- 
cure cheerfulness  of  innocence,  go  to  Worms  on  the 
Rhine.  Rich  gifts  of  red  gold  and  gleaming  jewels 
are  borne  along,  that  Siegfried  may  be  generous  at 
the  Burgundian  court. 

A  splendid  reception  awaits  the  guests,  for  thou- 
sands of  knights  from  all  the  roads  come  streaming 
into  the  gates  of  the  royal  city.  In  magnificent  at- 
tire the  kings  ride,  with  their  retinue,  through  the 
streets  ;  the  noble  ladies  and  beautiful  maidens,  hand- 
somely adorned,  sit  at  the  windows.  The  sound  of 
trumpets  and  flutes  fills  the  great  city  by  the  Rhine 
until  it  rings  with  music ;  but  notwithstanding  all, 
the  air  is  full  of  boding.  The  two  queens  —  Kriem- 
hild  and  Brunhild  —  sit  together  as  ten  years  before. 
"I  have  a  husband,"  says  the  happy  Kriemhild, 
"who  deserves  to  possess  all  these  kingdoms." 
That  was  the  spark  which  kindled  fire.  "  How  is 
that  possible,"  says  Brunhild,  gloomily.  "These 
realms  belong  to  Gunther,  and  will  remain  subject 
to  him."  Kriemhild  fails  to  catch  the  tone  of  gath- 
ering anger,  and  continues,  less  guardedly  :  "  Seest 
thou  how  he  stands  there,  —  how  he  walks  so  grandly 
before  the  heroes,  like  the  moon  before  the  stars? 
Therefore  it  is  that  my  heart  so  rejoices."  Brun- 
hild replies:  "To  Gunther  belongs  precedence 
among  all  kings.  When  thy  brother  won  me  as  a 


THE    NIBELUNGEN  LIED.  31 

wife,  Siegfried  himself  said  he  was  Gunther's  serv- 
ing-man, and  so  I  have  considered  him  ever  since. 
He  is  and  shall  remain  subject  to  us."  Then  breaks 
forth  Kriemhild's  anger:  "  Siegfried  is  indeed  no- 
bler than  Gunther,  my  brother  ;  we  will  see  whether 
I  shall  not  have  precedence  over  thee  when  we  go 
into  the  cathedral  to-day." 

Before  the  minster  the  quarrel  is  renewed  with 
greater  bitterness.  After  stinging  words,  Kriemhild 
repents,  and  adds,  "  Thou  art  thyself  to  blame  that 
we  have  fallen  into  this  strife.  It  is  hateful  to  me, 
and  for  true  heart  friendship  I  shall  always  again  be 
prepared."  But  the  words  have  been  too  bitter. 
Brunhild  falls  into  cruel  desire  for  revenge.  Sieg- 
fried laments  the  strife.  "They  have  forgotten 
themselves,"  he  thinks.  "Let  us  be  silent  about 
what  has  happened,  and  let  our  wives  be  as  silent  as 
we."  But  Brunhild,  lamenting  in  weak  rage,  sits 
solitary  in  her  room.  There  Hagen  finds  her,  and 
learns  from  her  more  particularly  how  she  has  been 
injured.  The  man  must  die.  The  three  kings, 
Gunther,  Gernot,  and  Gieseler,  are  summoned  in 
council.  Only  the  youngest,  Gieseler,  considers 
the  affair  a  woman's  contest, — too  trifling  to  bring 
death  to  a  hero  like  Siegfried.  The  rest  agree  to 
spread  a  false  report  of  war  ;  the  army  is  to  be  sum- 
moned, and  since,  plainly,  Siegfried  will  not  be  ab- 
sent from  the  march,  the  hero  shall  be  slain  in  the 
campaign. 

Then  the  cruel  Hagen  goes  to  Kriemhild  to  take 
farewell,  according  to  custom.  She  has  already 
half  forgotten  the  quarrel,  and  not  the  slightest 


32  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

suspicion  comes  into  her  mind  that  she  has  before 
her  the  implacable  enemy  of  her  husband,  who,  in  his 
fealty  to  his  queen,  has  sworn  his  death.  "  Hagen," 
she  says,  "  thou  art  my  kinsman.  To  whom  can  I 
better  trust  my  husband's  life  in  the  war  than  to 
thee  ?  Protect  Siegfried  !  To  be  sure  he  is  invul- 
nerable, but  when  he  bathed  himself  in  the  dragon's 
blood,  a  broad  linden  leaf  fell  between  his  shoulder- 
blades,  so  that  this  place  was  not  wet  by  the  blood, 
and  remained  unprotected."  "  Sew  a  sign  for  me, 
royal  lady,"  says  the  traitor,  "  on  this  place  on  his 
garment,  so  that  I  may  know  exactly  how  to  protect 
him."  Kriemhild  sews  with  her  own  hand  a  cross 
of  fine  silk  on  Siegfried's  dress, — the  mark  for  his 
bloody  death.  Next  day  the  march  begins,  and 
Hagen,  riding  close  to  Siegfried,  sees  the  sign. 
From  a  campaign  the  expedition  becomes  a  great 
hunt ;  Siegfried  sees  Kriemhild  for  the  last  time, 
while  threatening  visions  trouble  her  soul,  as  for- 
merly, when  she  dreamed  of  the  falcons  and  the 
eagle  in  her  childhood.  Now  she  sees  two  moun- 
tains fall  upon  Siegfried,  he  vanishing  among  the 
ruins. 

The  hunt  is  finished  ;  the  heroes  —  Siegfried  first 
(who  has  slain  the. most  game) — are  thirsty  and 
tired  with  the  chase  under  the  heat  of  the  sun. 
There  is  no  more  wine  ;  the  Rhine  is  distant ;  there 
is  no  chance  for  the  refreshment  they  desire. 
Hageu,  however,  knows  of  a  spring  in  the  wood 
near  by,  the  Odenwald,  and  thither  he  advises  them 
to  go.  Already  they  see  the  broad  linden  under 
whose  roots  the  cool  spring  bubbles  forth.  Then 


THE    NIBELUNOEN  LIED.  33 

Hagen  begins:  "It  has  often  been  said  that  no 
one  can  follow  the  quick  Siegfried  ;  let  us  try  it 
now."  "Let  us  run  for  a  wager,"  replies  Sieg- 
fried, "  as  far  as  the  spring."  When  the  race 
begins,  like  wild  panthers  spring  Gunther  and 
Hagen  through  the  forest,  but  Siegfried  is  first  at 
the  goal.  Quietly  now  he  lays  away  his  arms, 
waiting  until  the  king  comes  up,  that  he  may  drink 
first.  Gunther  comes  up  and  drinks  ;  after  him 
Siegfried  bends  down  to  the  spring.  Hagen,  leap- 
ing forward,  quietly  puts  the  arms  out  of  Siegfried's 
reach,  then  takes  the  spear  in  his  murderous  hand  ; 
while  the  hero  is  taking  his  last  draught,  Hagen 
throws  the  javelin  through  the  cross  on  his  back,  so 
that  the  heart's  blood  streams  over  the  slayer.  In 
wrath  the  wounded  hero  springs  to  his  feet,  grasp- 
ing after  sword  and  bow,  but  finds  no  weapon. 
Then  he  clutches  his  shield  and  rushes  upon  Hagen. 
Wrathfully  he  smites  the  traitor  with  his  shield,  so 
that  the  jewels  with  which  it  is  set  are  scattered 
about,  and  the  wood  resounds  with  the  fury  of  the 
blows.  Then  his  cheek  grows  pale,  and  his  limbs 
totter.  Kriemhild's  husband  falls  among  the  flow- 
ers, and  the  blood  pours  from  his  death-wound. 

With  his  last  breath  he  turns  angrily  upon  his 
murderers. 

"You  have  repaid  my  fidelity  by  slaying  your 
kinsman." 

Many  a  lamentation  is  heard, — among  others  the 
voice  of  Gunther,  whose  heart  fails  him, — but  the 
grim  Hagen  pours  out  scorn  upon  those  bewailing, 
and  upon  the  man  shamefully  murdered.  "  I  know 


34  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

not  why  you  lament;  now  comes  to  an  end  that 
which  we  have  borne  with  sorrow  and  care.  Well 
for  me  that  I  have  slain  this  one  !  "  Once  more  the 
hero  speaks  :  "I  sorrow  for  nothing  so  much  as  for 
my  wife,  Kriemhild.  If  you  mean,  noble  King 
Gunther,  ever  again  to  be  faithful  to  any  one  in 
your  life,  to  you  do  I  commend  her.  Let  it  be  well 
for  her  that  she  is  your  sister."  Far  around  the 
flowers  of  the  forest  are  reddened  with  his  blood, 
for  the  death-struggle  has  ended.  Then  the  lords, 
according  to  old  custom,  place  the  hero's  corpse  on 
a  gold-red  shield,  and  bear  it  to  Worms  on  the 
Rhine.  Some  advise  to  say  that  robbers  have  killed 
him.  But  Hagen  cries,  "  What  care  I  though 
Kriemhild  hears  that  I  have  killed  him?  She  has 
injured  Brunhild  so  much,  I  hold  her  sorrow  to  be 
but  a  slight  thing.  She  may  weep  as  much  as  she 
will."  And  the  terrible  Hagcn,  when  by  night 
they  reached  Worms,  had  the  corpse  laid  before  the 
house  where  Kriemhild  dwelt,  well  knowing  that 
she  herself  would  find  it  there  when,  according  to 
custom,  she  went  to  matins.  A  chamberlain,  going 
first  in  the  gray  dawn  with  a  light,  sees  the  corpse. 
"My  lady,"  he  cries,  "remain.  A  slain  knight 
lies  before  the  gate."  Kriemhild' s  answer  is  a  loud 
cry  of  terror.  Well  she  recognizes  in  the  pale  torch- 
light the  heroic  figure  and  the  noble  features  stiff- 
ened in  death.  Loud  lamenting  fills,  far  and  wide, 
the  halls  and  courts.  The  faithful  associate  them- 
selves for  revenge  ;  Kriemhild  can  scarcely  restrain 
them.  "  It  is  not  now  time  for  revenge  ;  hereafter 
it  will  come."  When  the  corpse  lies  upon  the  bier, 


THE    NIBELUNGEN  LIED.  35 

the  kings,  her  brothers,  come,  and  her  kindred. 
Hagen,too,  stalks  forward  without  shame.  Kriem- 
hild  waits  at  the  bier  for  the  judgment.  If  the 
murderer  stops  near  the  murdered,  or  touches  his 
body,  the  wounds  will  open  and  blood  flow  afresh. 
As  Hagen  approaches,  the  wounds  flow.  "  God 
will  revenge  the  deed!"  cries  Kriemhild.  The 
corpse  is  put  into  its  coffin  and  borne  to  the 
grave,  Kriemhild  following,  almost  in  a  death- 
struggle  with  unspeakable  woe.  Once  more  she 
desires  to  see  the  beautiful  head  of  her  husband  ;  the 
costly  coffin,  ornamented  with  gold  and  silver,  is 
broken  open  in  the  cathedral ;  with  white  hand  she 
raises  the  hero's  head  and  presses  a  kiss  on  the  pale 
lips.  Then  Siegfried  is  buried. 

While  Siegfried's  father  and  the  Nibelungen  re- 
turn to  the  Netherlands,  Kriemhild  is  fixed  to  the 
spot  where  her  love  began,  —  where  it  ended  in  cruel 
woe.  Her  life  has  fully  gone  out  into  the  grand 
hero  who  was  hers.  She  has  henceforth  only  two 
feelings,  —  suffering  and  revenge.  She  passes  thir- 
teen years  at  Worms,  in  deep  mourning.  To  ap- 
pease their  sister,  the  kings,  her  brothers,  have  the 
immeasurable  treasure  in  jewels  and  gold  which  lies 
in  the  Nibelungen  land  —  the  Nibelungen  hoard — 
brought  thence.  Twelve  wagons  go  four  days  and 
nights  in  order  to  bring  it  from  the  hollow  mount 
where  it  is  hidden,  to  the  ship.  It  arrives,  and  is 
given  to  Kriemhild  ;  henceforth  the  Burgundians  are 
called  Nibelungen.  But  again  the  grim  Hagcn  steps 
as  an  enemy  in  her  way,  for  he  fears  she  may,  by 
her  generosity  from  it,  win  so  many  to  her  service 


36  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

that  it  may  do  injury  to  the  power  of  the  king  him- 
self. He  accordingly  sinks  the  Nibelungen  hoard  in 
the  Rhine,  and  there  it  lies,  according  to  the  tradi- 
tion of  the  people,  between  Worms  and  Lorsch, 
until  this  day.  At  length  comes  the  time  for  re- 
venge. 

When  Kriemhild  has  mourned  for  Siegfried  thir- 
teen years,  in  distant  Hungary  dies  the  wife  of 
Etzel,  or  Attila,  king  of  the  Huns.  His  vassal, 
Rudiger  of  Bechlarn,  persuades  him  to  woo  a  new 
spouse,  —  Kriemhild.  Rudiger  is  at  once  sent  west- 
ward with  this  commission .  As  he  arrives  at  Worms , 
Hagen  cries  out  in  surprise,  "  For  a  long  time  I 
have  not  seen  Riidiger,  but  from  the  bearing  of 
this  messenger  I  must  think  that  he  is  that  bold 
and  skilful  soldier."  Great  joy  follows  over  the 
meeting,  for  they  have  known  each  other  at  Etzel' s 
court.  There  is  a  hospitable  reception,  and,  on  the 
part  of  Riidiger,  stately  wooing.  Hagen  disap- 
proves the  suit.  "  If  Kriemhild  becomes  queen  of 
the  Huns,  you  will  all  see  she  will  do  us  as  much 
harm  as  she  can.  It  becomes  heroes  to  avoid  sor- 
row." Lo  !  the  black  wings  of  foreboding  expand 
themselves  before  new,  terrible  suffering,  and  this 
dark  presage  will  not  cease  until  it  is  completed  in 
horror.  Kriemhild  at  first  steadfastly  refuses.  Her 
brothers,  Gieseler  and  Gernot,  say  to  her,  "  If  any 
one  can  turn  away  thy  sorrow,  that  can  Etzel  do ; 
from  the  Rhone  to  the  Rhine,  from  the  Elbe  to  the 
sea,  there  is  no  king  so  powerful  as  he.  Be  happy 
that  he  has  a  mind  to  choose  you  to  be  the  sharer 
of  his  splendid  power."  Rudiger 's  requests,  how- 


THE    NIBELUNGEN  LIED.  37 

ever,  cannot  move  her,  until  he  says,  "Every  one 
who  does  you  an  injury  shall  atone  for  it  heavily 
through  our  hand."  Then  the  sorrowing  one  rises, 
suddenly  revived  by  the  thought  of  revenge.  What 
thoughts  lurk  in  her  torn  heart  Riidiger  does  not 
know.  Kriemhild  reaches  to  him  her  hand  in  assent, 
and  soon  she  goes  with  Riidiger  on  the  journey  to 
the  land  of  the  Huns,  her  brothers  accompanying 
her  as  far  as  the  Danube.  Then  she  proceeds  to 
Riidiger 's  castle,  where  she  is  lovingly  received  by 
Gotlinde,  the  margrave's  wife.  After  short  rest,  the 
train,  which  continually  becomes  more  numerous, 
goes  forward,  until  at  last  she  is  received  by  Etzel. 
Twenty-four  tributary  princes  are  in  his  suite,  who 
all  do  reverence  to  Kriemhild.  And  who  stands 
there  at  the  head  of  a  troop  of  horsemen  whose 
faces  look  defiantly  from  their  wolf  helmets?  Of 
lofty,  almost  gigantic,  stature,  he  is  like  a  lion  in  his 
shoulders  and  loins,  which  seem  cast  out  of  bronze. 
Of  proud  and  noble  countenance,  he  is  like  Sieg- 
fried, only  Siegfried's  cheerful  youth  is  changed  in 
this  case  into  the  firm,  deep  earnestness  of  the 
ripened  man,  on  whose  head  the  storms  of  heavy 
fate  have  already  raged.  About  his  full  hair  the 
coronal  of  a  king  is  wound ;  his  strong  left  hand 
holds  the  sword-hilt ;  the  powerful  right  hand  rests 
on  the  lion  shield.  It  is  the  great  hero  of  German 
tradition,  the  king  of  the  Ostrogoths,  Dietrich  of 
Berne,  —  the  mightiest  hero  of  his  time,  —  with 
Hildebrand,  his  vassal,  and  the  rest  of  his  troop, 
now  a  guest  at  Etzel' s  court,  until  he  shall  return 
victoriously  into  the  land  and  dominion  of  his 


38  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

fathers.  All  these  bands,  making  up  together  an 
army  which  stretches  out  of  sight,  march  now,  sur- 
rounding the  royal  pair,  down  to  Vienna,  where  a 
marriage  festival  is  celebrated,  lasting  seventeen 
days, — with  lavish  splendor  and  innumerable  gifts. 
But  Kriemhild,  in  the  midst  of  the  magnificence, 
thinks  how  she  once  dwelt  on  the  Rhine,  by  the 
side  of  the  noble  Siegfried ;  her  eyes  become  wet 
with  tears,  which  she  is  forced  to  conceal.  The 
foreign  land  never  becomes  her  home.  For  seven 
years  she  sits  with  Etzel  under  the  crown  of  the 
land  of  the  Huns ;  then  she  bears  a  son,  who  is 
named  at  baptism  Ortlieb.  Again  six  years  pass, 
so  that  twenty-six  years  have  gone  since  Siegfried 
fell  at  the  linden  spring  in  the  Odenwald.  Then 
comes  the  time  of  revenge. 

"  Long  years  have  I  been  in  a  foreign  land,"  she 
says,  at  length,  to  Etzel,  "  and  yet  no  one  of  my 
noble  relatives  has  visited  me  here.  I  cannot  longer 
bear  the  absence  of  my  kindred,  for  they  say  already 
here,  since  none  of  my  house  seek  me  out,  I  am 
fugitive  and  banished,  —  without  kin  and  home." 
Etzel,  ready  to  help  her,  sends  messengers  to  Worms 
without  delay,  inviting  them  to  a  festival  at  the 
next  solstice,  at  his  castle  in  Hungary.  When  the 
messengers  reach  Worms,  the  kings  hesitate  long 
whether  to  accept  the  invitation.  Hagen  earnestly 
opposes  its  acceptance:  "You  will  declare  war 
upon  yourselves  ;  you  know  what  we  have  done  to 
Kriemhild ;  that  I  slew  her  husband  with  my  own 
hand  ;  we  shall  only  lose  in  Etzel' s  land  honor  and 
life.  Kriemhild  has  only  thoughts  of  revenge." 


THE    NIBELUNGEN  LIED.  39 

The  warning  is  unheeded.  Hagen  only  succeeds  in 
inducing  them  to  go  well  guarded ;  all  vassals  are 
summoned.  Joyfully  they  come,  and  among  them 
a  new  hero,  who  now  steps  into  the  foreground,  the 
bold,  joyous  Volker  von  Alzei,  a  gleeman  who 
understands  the  fiddle  and  singing,  and  is,  at  the 
same  time,  of  great  prowess  in  war. 

Etzel's  messengers  return  and  announce  the  suc- 
cess of  their  mission.  Kriemhild,  in  terrible  joy 
that  she  has  at  last  reached  her  aim,  exclaims, 
"What  I  have  long  desired  shall  now  be  com- 
pleted." Again  the  dark  foreboding  of  a  terrible 
future  arises  at  the  Nibelungen  court.  The  old 
gray-haired  queen-mother,  Ute,  still  lives,  and 
dreams,  just  as  the  preparations  are  made  for  de- 
parture, that  all  the  birds  lie  dead  on  field  and  heath. 
Hagen  again  hesitates  ;  he  would  again  have  dis- 
suaded from  the  journey,  but  Gernot  scorns  him : 
"Hagen  is  thinking  of  Siegfried  ;  therefore  he  wants 
to  give  up  the  journey  to  the  land  of  the  Huns." 

And  here,  that  you  may  obtain  some  impression 
of  the  rude  and  vigorous  verse,  let  me  introduce  a 
few  lines  of  the  translation  of  Birch : l 

Then  out  spoke  the  hold  Hagen :  "  No  wise  is  it  through  fear. 

If  you  command  it,  heroes,  then  up,  gird  on  your  gear; 

I  ride  with  you  the  foremost  into  King  Etzel's  land." 

Since  then  full  many  a  helmet  strong  was  shivered  by  his  hand. 

The  boats  were  floating  ready,  and  many  men  there  were. 
What  clothes  of  price  they  had  they  took  and  stowed  them  there. 
Was  never  rest  from  tolling  until  the  eventide ; 
Then  they  took  the  flood  right  gayly  and  would  longer  not  abide. 


Strophe  1453  et  seq. 


40  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

Brave  tents  and  towers  you  saw  raised  on  the  grass ; 
The  other  side  the  Rhine-stream  that  camp  it  pitched  was. 
The  king  to  stay  awhile  was  besought  of  his  fair  wife ; 
That  night  she  saw  him  with  her,  and  never  more  in  her  life. 

And  when  the  rapid  heroes  took  horse  and  prickt  away, 
The  women,  bent  in  sorrow,  you  saw  behind  them  stay ; 
Of  parting  all  too  long  their  hearts  to  them  did  tell,  — 
When  grief  so  great  is  coming  on  the  mind  forebodes  not  well. 

Then  'gan  they  shape  their  journey  towards  the  Eiver  Main, 
All  on  through  East  Franconia,  King  Gunther  and  his  train ; 
Hagen,  he  was  their  leader ;  of  old  he  knew  the  way ; 
Dankwart  did  keep,  as  marshal,  their  ranks  all  in  good  array. 

As  they  from  East  Franconia  the  Salfield  rode  along, 

You  might  have  seen  them  prancing,  a  bright  and  lordly  throng ; 

The  princes  and  their  vassals,  all  heroes  of  great  fame. 

The  twelfth  morn  brave  King  Gunther  unto  the  Donau  came. 

Then  rode  the  grisly  Hagen,  the  foremost  of  that  host ; 
He  was,  to  the  Nibelungen,  the  guide  they  loved  the  most ; 
The  hero  keen  dismounted,  set  foot  on  sandy  ground, 
His  steed  unto  a  tree  he  tied,  looked  wistful  then  all  around. 

Among  those  bold  companions  he  was  of  aspect  stern, 
And  yet  of  stalwart  presence,  as  one  might  well  discern 
From  his  keen,  rapid  glances,  for  the  eyes  naught  rest  in  him ; 
Methinks  this  Nibelungen  was  of  temper  most  tierce  and  grim. 

Now  Hagen  is  warned  by  a  spirit  of  the  waters  : 
"  Hagen,  I  will  warn  thee.  Go  back  while  there  is 
still  time.  No  one  of  your  great  army  will  return 
over  the  Danube."  Hagen  now  sees  that  destruc- 
tion is  certain.  They  reach  at  last  the  territories  of 
Eiidiger  of  Bechlarn,  who  with  princely  hospitality 
receives  the  whole  great  army  of  the  Nibelungen 
kings, — three  thousand  vassals  and  nine  thousand 
men-at-arms,  —  and  entertains  them  for  almost  a 
week  at  Bechlarn.  With  the  German  kiss  of  saluta- 


THE    NIBELUNGEN  LIED.  41 

tion  Riidiger's  wife  and  daughter  receive  the  guests, 
the  friends  of  the  master  of  the  house,  the  brethren 
and  kindred  of  their  queen.  In  child-like  innocence 
Dietlinde,  the  daughter,  goes  down  the  line  of 
heroes  to  give  the  welcome ;  but  when  she  reaches 
Hagen  she  shudders  at  the  grim  features,  and  only 
upon  her  father's  command  holds  toward  him  her 
cheek.  Cheerfulness  rules  at  the  table,  at  which  the 
matron  herself  presides.  There  is  merry  pleasure 
at  the  noon-tide  when  the  daughter,  with  her  maids, 
again  appears  and  inspires  the  noble  Volker  of  Alzei 
to  playing  and  jovial  songs.  The  summit  of  joy  is 
reached  when  at  last  the  Nibelungen  ask  Dietlinde 
for  the  youngest  of  their  kings,  Gieseler,  and  the 
betrothal  of  the  beautiful  pair  takes  place  amid  uni- 
versal jubilation. 

The  hour  of  departure  approaches.  As  a  token 
of  intimate  alliance  and  life-long  heroic  friendship, 
Riidiger  gives  his  sword  to  Gernot,  —  the  faithful 
weapon  which  he  has  wielded  in  many  a  battle  ; 
then  the  hero  bands  march  off  to  the  land  of  the 
Huns,  toward  their  inevitable  fate.  When  they 
have  crossed  the  frontiers  and  encamped  for  the 
first  time  on  stranger  soil,  Hildebrand,  the  vassal 
of  Dietrich,  first  learns  of  their  coming,  and  hurries 
to  announce  the  same  to  his  master.  Dietrich  and 
his  troop  mount  on  horseback  and  go  towards 
the  strangers.  Hagen  recognizes  him  from  afar. 
"Rise,  noble  lords  and  kings,"  he  cries;  "there 
comes  a  royal  train  ;  those  are  the  swift  heroes  of 
the  Goths,  with  Dietrich  at  their  head."  Then  the 
Nibelungen  kings  rise  before  the  mighty  sovereign 


42  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

and  glorious  hero,  who  now  dismounts  and  comes 
to  meet  them.  "Welcome,  Gunther,  Gernot,  and 
Gieseler !  Welcome,  Hagen  and  Volker.  Do  you 
not  know  that  Kriemhild  laments  the  hero  of  the 
Nibelungen-land?"  "  She  may  lament  him  long," 
replies  Hagen,  defiantly.  "  Many  years  ago  he  lay 
dead.  Let  her  hold  fast  to  the  king  of  the  Huns, 
for  Siegfried,  the  long-buried,  will  return  no  more." 
"  How  Siegfried  received  his  death- wound  we  will 
not  ask,"  earnestly  replies  the  king  of  the  Goths  ; 
"we  will  not  inquire  further;  enough  that  so  long 
as  Kriemhild  lives,  severe  misfortune  threatens. 
Hagen,  pillar  of  the  Nibelungen,  guard  thyself 
before  that."  And  Dietrich  says  yet  more  plainly 
that  every  morning  the  wife  of  Etzel  utters  lamen- 
tations to  Heaven  over  the  dead  Siegfried.  "It  is 
too  late  to  go  back,"  says  Volker,  the  bold  and 
merry  gleeman,  "let  us  ride  on  to  Etzel' s  court, 
and  see  what  will  befall  us  among  the  Huns." 

The  news  of  the  approach  of  the  Burgundian  army 
is  brought  now  to  the  court  of  Etzel.  Kriemhild 
and  her  husband  go  to  the  window  to  see  the  troop 
arrive.  There,  in  the  distance,  appear  the  well- 
known  Nibelungen  escutcheons  and  eagle-helmets. 
"  He  who  now  will  win  my  favor,"  cries  Kriemhild, 
' '  let  him  think  of  my  grief. ' '  The  Huns  press  for- 
ward to  see  one  man  in  the  company,  —  the  terrible 
Hagen,  who  slew  Siegfried.  There  he  rides  upon  a 
powerful  steed,  the  gloomy,  formidable  hero,  tall, 
firm  as  iron  in  breast  and  shoulders,  with  gray  be- 
sprent hair,  and  dark,  angry,  rapid-glancing  eye, 
overlooking  the  rest.  The  main  body  of  the  Nibe- 


THE    NIBELUNGEN  LIED.  43 

lungen  is  quartered  in  the  city.  The  noble  vassals 
go  with  the  three  kings  to  the  palace  of  Etzel.  In 
the  press  in  the  inner  court  Hagen  finds  Volker, 
and  knowing  that  the  end  is  close  at  hand,  the  two 
boldest  heroes  of  the  Nibelungen  conclude  a  league 
for  life  and  death.  Before  one  of  the  palace  build- 
ings they  sit  on  a  bench  of  stone,  surrounded  by 
Huns ,  who  behold  them  in  respectful  silence .  Kriem- 
hild  too  sees  her  mortal  enemy  from  the  window. 
She  breaks  forth  into  angry  weeping,  and  passion- 
ately summons  her  faithful  ones  to  revenge  the  cruel 
sorrow  which  she  has  suffered  from  Hagen ;  sixty 
men  arm  themselves  to  slay  Hagen  and  Volker,  and 
in  the  front  of  the  troop  descends  Kriemhild  herself 
—  the  crown  on  her  head  —  into  the  court,  to  get 
from  Hagen' s  own  mouth  the  confession  of  his  mur- 
der. Volker  calls  Hagen' s  attention  to  the  armed 
troop  coming  from  the  stair-case,  who  replies, 
naming  out  in  angry  spirit,  ««  Well  do  I  know  that 
all  this  is  for  me.  But  tell  me,  Volker,  will  you  in 
the  hot  battle  stand  by  me  in  faithful  friendship,  as 
I  never  will  abandon  thee?"  "  So  long  as  I  live," 
is  Volker's  answer,  "  even  though  all  the  hordes  of 
the  Huns  storm  against  us,  I  will  not  yield  from  you, 
O  Hagen,  one  foot."  ''May  the  God  in  Heaven 
reward  you,  noble  Volker.  What  more  do  I  need? 
They  may  come  on  with  their  armed  troops."  As 
Kriemhild  approaches  the  pair,  Volker  rises  before 
her,  but  Hagen  keeps  his  seat  in  quiet  defiance,  that 
she  may  not  think  he  fears  her.  But  with  this 
proud  scorn  of  etiquette  he  combines  a  second  far 
worse  scorn.  He  lays  across  his  knees,  just  as 


44  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

Kriemhild  approaches,  a  gleaming  sword,  in  whose 
hilt  burns  a  jasper.  It  is  the  sword  of  Siegfried, — 
Balmung,  renowned  in  legend,  —  which  Kriemhild 
immediately  recognizes.  There  is  the  golden  belt, 
the  red  embroidered  sheath,  which  she  has  seen  so 
often  at  Siegfried's  side.  Close  to  his  feet  steps 
Kriemhild.  "Who  sent  for  you  here,  Lord  Hageii, 
that  you  dared  to  ride  hither?  You  know  what  you 
have  done  for  me."  "Three  kings  have  been  in- 
vited hither,"  replies  Hagen;  "they  are  my  mas- 
ters ;  I  am  their  vassal.  Where  they  are,  am  I  also." 
"You  know,"  continues  Kriemhild,  "why  I  hate 
you.  You  slew  Siegfried,  and  for  that  I  must  weep 
until  death."  "Why  talk  longer,"  bursts  out 
Hagen.  "Yes,  I,  Hagen, — I  slew  Siegfried,  the 
hero,  because  Kriemhild  rebuked  the  beautiful  Brun- 
hild. Let  him  avenge  it  who  will." 

Thus  was  war  declared  to  the  death,  but  it  was 
not  to  break  out  at  once.  The  crowd  of  Huns  ven- 
ture not  to  attack  the  champions.  The  two  rise 
quietly,  and  go,  firm  of  step,  to  the  king's  hall,  where 
their  lords  are,  to  protect  them  in  life  and  death. 
They  forswear  sleep,  and  keep  watch  before  the 
chamber  of  the  kings.  There  tower  in  the  darkness 
the  giant  figures,  silent  and  almost  motionless,  before 
the  door.  In  the  night  a  troop  of  Huns  attempts  to 
surprise  the  sleepers,  but  are  frightened  away  by 
Hagen's  fearful  voice. 

The  remainder  of  the  Nibelungen  Lied  is  a  tale  of 
blood.  I  must  give  its  outlines  for  the  light  it 
throws  on  the  time  and  the  race.  Let  it  be  remem- 
bered it  is  a  barbarian  minstrel  singing  to  barbarian 


THE    NIBELUNGEN   LIED.  45 

hearers.  Hitherto  Etzel,  mindfuj  of  the  duty  of  a 
host,  has  sought  to  protect  his  guests,  and  persisted 
in  showing  toward  them  the  truest  friendship. 
Hagen  slays  the  son,  Ortlieb,  and  the  father  is 
aroused.  At  a  banquet  the  savage  mother  holds  in 
her  arms  the  little  boy,  five  years  old.  The  higher 
vassals  of  Etzel  are  present;  so,  too,  Hagen  and 
Volker,  with  the  noblest  of  the  Mbelungen.  Sud- 
denly a  messenger  shouts  into  the  hall  that  the  Huns 
have  slain  the  Nibelungen  outside.  The  princes  and 
vassals  start  up  in  wrath,  and  fall  upon  the  Huns 
present,  in  revenge.  In  the  fray  Hagen  slays  the 
boy  Ortlieb  in  his  mother's  arms.  In  the  wild  bat- 
tle Kriemhild  in  anguish  cries  out  to  Dietrich  to 
protect  her,  and  the  king  of  the  Goths,  not  prepared 
for  such  cruel  vengeance,  is  quickly  ready. 

He  raises  his  powerful  tones  to  a  deep,  resound- 
ing shout,  which  rings  throughout  the  whole  palace 
like  the  blast  of  a  trumpet.  For  a  moment  the  fray 
is  hushed  ;  Gunther  replies  they  are  only  concerned 
with  Etzel' s  vassals,  who  have  slain  his  followers  ; 
the  others  can  withdraw.  Etzel,  with  Kriemhild, 
Kiidiger,  Dietrich  and  his,  troop,  leave  the  hall. 
The  strife  begins  anew,  and  Etzel' s  followers  are 
slain  together.  Now  steps  Hagen,  arrogant  through 
victory,  to  the  door,  and  scorns  the  gray  Etzel  for 
withdrawing  from  the  battle.  He  mocks  Kriemhild, 
and  Volker  joins  in  the  grim  defiance  :  "  Such  poor 
cowards  as  the  Huns  have  never  been  seen." 
Kriemhild  commands  that  Etzel' s  shield  shall  be 
filled  with  gold,  and  given  to  whomsoever  shall  slay 
Hagen  and  bring  his  head  to  her.  The  Huns,  how- 


46  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

ever,  strive  in  vain.  Evening  descends  on  the  awful 
combat,  and  stillness  follows  the  wild  tumult.  The 
tired  heroes  in  the  hall  lay  away  their  shields  and 
unbind  their  helms.  Only  Hagen  and  Volker  re- 
main armed  to  defend  their  lords.  In  the  deep  ex- 
haustion of  the  hot  and  murderous  combat,  and  in 
the  certainty  of  perishing,  a  short  death  seems  to 
them  preferable  to  a  long  struggle.  They  desire  a 
parley,  and  ask  to  go  into  the  free  air,  so  that,  as- 
saulted by  all  the  hostile  troops,  they  may  find  a 
speedy  death. 

But  Kriemhild  fears  an  escape,  and  denies  the 
request.  Then  love  for  his  young  life  speaks  out 
of  Gieseler:  "Ah,  fair  sister,  how  could  I  have 
expected  to  see  this  great  calamity  when  you  in- 
vited me  here  from  the  Rhine?  How  have  I 
deserved  death  here  in  a  foreign  land?  Faithful 
was  I  always  to  thee,  and  never  did  thee  harm.  I 
hoped  to  find  thee  loving  to  me  ;  let  me  die  quickly* 
if  it  must  be  so."  Kriemhild  is  much  moved,  and 
demands  to  have  only  Hagen  given  up.  "I  will 
let  you  live,  for  you  are  my  brothers ;  we  are 
children  of  one  mother."  «« Let  us  die  with  Hagen, 
since  die  we  must,"  cries  Gieseler  too.  "  He  is  our 
vassal ;  we  will  be  faithful  to  him  unto  death." 

The  rage  of  the  wretched  Kriemhild  rises  to  a 
terrible  height.  She  causes  the  hall  to  be  set  on 
fire.  Soon  the  waves  of  flame  rise  far  into  the 
night ;  smoke  and  heat,  and  the  brands  falling  from 
the  roof  into  the  hall,  torment  the  confined  heroes 
almost  to  death.  They  press  close  to  the  walls,  and 
cover  themselves  with  their  shields  against  the  heat. 


THE    NIBELUNGEN  LIED.  47 

They  quench  their  thirst  in  the  blood  of  their  slain 
foes.  The  night  is  at  length  over,  and  amid  the 
smoking  ruins,  in  the  pale  day-break,  stand  the  firm 
combatants,  with  spirit  unbroken.  Then  at  last 
Etzel  turns  to  the  noble  Rtidiger  of  Bechlarn ;  he 
unwittingly  has  brought  all  this  evil  upon  the  land. 
He  advised  and  arranged  the  marriage  with  Kriem- 
hild ;  he  guided  thither  the  Nibelungen.  After 
showing  them  hospitality,  the  young  King  Gieseler 
is  to  become  his  son.  If  he  refuses  now  to  perform 
the  service  for  Etzel,  he  is  wanting  in  fidelity  to  his 
king.  If  he  yields,  he  commits  treason  towards 
those  whom  he  led  hither  as  guests  and  comrades. 
So  comes  the  bitter  struggle  of  a  soul  whose  only 
choice  is  between  the  kinds  of  unfaithfulness.  We 
see  a  strong,  trusting  heart  tremble  in  despairing 
anguish.  It  breaks  long  before  it  receives  the  death- 
thrust.  It  is  the  older  faith — that  to  his  king — 
which  he  feels  forced  to  keep.  His  retainers  arm, 
and  he  stalks,  shield  in  hand,  to  the  ruins  of  the 
hall.  Those  who  have  lately  been  his  guests  remind 
him  of  his  honor ;  but  the  more  ancient  duty  must 
carry  it  over  the  newer.  The  Burgundians  know 
it  too,  so  they  forfeit  faith  toward  him  lately  their 
host,  to  keep  it  toward  their  vassal.  But  one  last 
and  touching  sign  of  the  friendship  now  dissolved 
is  given.  Hagen  complains  that  his  shield  is  broken  ; 
Rlidiger  reaches  to  him  his  own  shield,  and  stands 
before  those  whom  he  must  fight,  unprotected. 
"Grim  as  Hagen  was,"  sings  the  minstrel,  "this 
act  touched  his  heart.  He  wept,  and  the  knights 
wept  with  him.  *  May  God  in  Heaven  reward  you, 


48  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

noble  Riidiger,  your  like  is  not  upon  the  earth.' ' 
Hageu  refuses  to  fight,  and  withdraws  with  his 
shadow,  Volker,  and  Gieseler.  The  others  remain, 
and  the  strife  begins ;  poor  Gernot  hurries  to  help 
his  men ;  Riidiger  strikes  a  death-wound  upon  his 
head,  and  the  last  blow  which  Gernot  aims  with 
the  sword  given  him  by  Riidiger  is  Riidiger's  death- 
blow. The  heroes  sink  together. 

Palace  and  towers  resound  with  the  mourning 
over  the  heroes  who  have  fallen,  so  that  Dietrich  of 
Berne,  standing  aloof  as  one  that  had  no  part  in  the 
quarrel,  sends  a  messenger  to  learn  the  cause  of  the 
cries.  Finding  that  Riidiger,  whom  they  have 
loved,  is  dead,  Hildebrand  demands  his  body  for 
burial.  Scorn  is  the  answer  of  the  Nibelungen ; 
Dietrich's  giant  followers  hereupon  grasp  their 
swords,  and  anew  the  combat  rages.  Volker,  the 
merry  gleeman,  falls  by  the  mighty  hand  of  Hilde- 
brand. Gieseler  and  a  Gothic  prince  are  mutually 
slain ;  and  Hagen,  to  revenge  Volker's  death, 
presses  upon  Hildebrand  with  blows  so  terrible  that 
the  rushing  can  be  heard  far  away  of  the  mighty 
strokes  of  Balmung,  the  sword  of  Siegfried,  about 
the  head  of  the  grisly  Goth.  Hildebrand,  however, 
escapes  with  a  heavy  wound  ;  he  returns  to  Dietrich, 
but  none  of  his  followers.  In  the  royal  hall,  soli- 
tary too,  among  the  bodies  of  friend  and  foe,  stand 
Gunther  and  Hagen.  Then  at  length  goes  forth 
Dietrich;  Gunther  and  Hagen  wait  gloomily,  and 
when  summoned  to  yield,  Hagen  refuses  to  do  so 
until  the  sword  of  the  Nibelungen  is  broken.  Diet- 
rich overpowers  Hagen,  with  lion  clasp  binds  him, 


THE    NIBELUNGEN  LIED.  49 

and  leads  him  to  Kriemhild.  Gunther  is  also 
bound.  Dietrich  recommends  that  their  lives  be 
spared,  and  departs  in  gloom.  But  Kriemhild  must 
drain  to  the  dregs  the  cup  of  revenge.  If  Hagen 
will  give  her  back  the  Nibelungen  treasure,  he  shall 
keep  his  life.  But  Hagen  is  still  defiant :  "So  long 
as  one  of  my  lords  lives,  I  will  not  reveal  the 
treasure."  Gunther  is  promptly  slain,  and  his 
head  brought  by  the  fury  to  Hagen.  "It  is  now 
ended,"  he  cries.  "  Now  is  dead  the  noble  Nibelun- 
gen king,  as  also  the  young  Gieseler  and  Gernot. 
No  one  knows  now  the  place  of  the  treasure  but 
God  and  I  alone.  From  thee,  cruel  woman,  it 
shall  l)c  forever  hidden . "  "  So ,  then , ' '  cries  Kriem- 
hild, "I  have  only  the  sword  of  my  Siegfried." 
She  draws  it  from  its  sheath,  and  Balmung  at 
length  avenges  the  murder  in  the  hand  of  the  furi- 
ous queen  of  the  Huns.  Then  springs  up  the  old 
Hildebrand  in  wrath,  because  the  peace  which  his 
lord  asked  for  Gunther  and  Hagen  was  broken. 
Kriemhild  sinks  before  his  blow,  with  a  shriek,  and 
all  is  done.  "With  sorrow,"  sp  ends  the  song, 
"was  concluded  the  high  festival  of  the  king;  as 
always  joy  gives  sorrow  at  the  end."  The  last 
stanza  runs  : 

I  cannot  tell  \ou  farther  about  the  slaughters  red ; 
The  hosts  that  then  were  smitten  in  silence  all  lay  dead. 
"What  afterwards  befell,  herein  ye  may  not  read ; 
Here  has  the  song  an  ending ;  this  is  the  Nibelungen  Lied. 
4 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE   NIBELUNGEN  LIED— Continued. 

In  the  preceding  chapter  the  story  of  the  Nibe- 
lungen  Lied  was  told,  after  a  brief  account  of  what 
the  poem  was,  and  why  it  is  worthy  of  attention 
from  a  generation  like  ours,  removed  eight  hundred 
years  from  the  time  of  its  composition.  I  hope  some 
traits  of  beauty  and  grandeur  have  made  themselves 
plain,  rude  though  it  sometimes  is.  Here,  at  any 
rate,  are  the  judgments  of  certain  writers  whose 
opinions  deserve  to  be  weighed  :  '  *  From  whatever 
side  we  view  it,"  says  Kurz,1  "it  is  by  far  the  most 
important  work  which  the  Middle  Ages  have  given 
to  us.  We  may  dare,  in  proud  confidence,  to  set  it 
beside  the  best  which  has  founded  the  glory  of  other 
races."  "It  is,"  says  Carlyle,2  "by  far  the  finest 
monument  of  old  German  art.  A  noble  soul  the 
singer  must  have  been ;  he  has  a  clear  eye  for  the 
beautiful  and  true  ;  the  whole  spirit  of  chivalry,  of 
love,  and  of  heroic  valor  must  have  lived  in  him  and 
inspired  him.  Everywhere  he  shows  a  noble  sensi- 
bility ;  the  sad  accents  of  parting  friends,  the  lament- 
ings  of  women,  the  high  daring  of  men,  —  all  that 


1  Geschichte  der  deutschen  Literatur. 

2  The  Nibelungen  Lied. 


THE    NIBELUNGEN  LIED.  51 

is  worthy  and  lovely  prolongs  itself  in  melodious 
echoes  through  his  heart.  A  true  old  singer,  and 
taught  of  nature  herself."  "Whoever,"  says  Lud- 
wig  Baur,1  "desires  with  poetical  look  to  transport 
himself  into  primeval  Germany  must  not  only  read, 
but  study,  the  Iliad  of  the  Germans, — The  Nibe- 
lungen  Lied.  There  the  original  spirit  of  the  people 
breathes  purest ;  there  it  becomes  plain  how  formerly 
the  world  and  the  intricacy  of  human  fate  were  re- 
garded." But  no  tribute  is  so  picturesque  as  that 
of  Heinrich  Heine:  "Would  you  nice  little  people 
form  an  idea  of  the  Nibelungen  Lied,  and  the  gigan- 
tic passions  which  move  in  it?  Imagine  to  your- 
selves a  clear  summer  night,  the  stars  pale  as  silver, 
but  large  as  suns,  stepping  forth  in  the  blue  sky, 
and  that  all  the  Gothic  cathedrals  of  Europe  had 
given  one  another  a  rendezvous  upon  a  wide  mountain 
plain.  There  would  come  striding  on  the  Strassburg 
minster,  the  Kolner-Dom,  the  Campanile  of  Giotto, 
the  cathedral  of  Rouen,  and  these  would  pay  to  the 
beautiful  Notre  Dame  of  Paris,  very  courteously, 
their  obeisance.  True,  their  walk  would  be  a  little 
clumsy ;  some  among  them  would  be  slightly  awk- 
ward, and  one  might  often  laugh  at  their  infatuated 
waggling.  But  this  would  have  an  end  when  one 
should  see  how  they  would  fall  into  a  rage,  slay  one 
another,  as  Notre  Dame  de  Paris  raises  her  strong 
arms  to  Heaven,  suddenly  seizes  a  sword,  and  strikes 
the  head  from  the  greatest  of  all  the  cathedrals. 
But,  no.  So,  you  get  no  idea  of  the  figures  of  the 


1  Quoted  by  Schonhuth. 


52  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

Nibelungen  Lied.  No  tower  is  so  high,  and  no  stone 
so  hard,  as  the  grim  Hagen  and  the  revengeful 
Kriemhild."1 

That  the  testimony  is  not  all  of  this  kind  is  true  ; 
and  as  an  offset  to  the  opinions  just  given,  here  is 
that  of  Frederick  the  Great,  which  has  been  framed, 
and  is  now  kept  under  gluss  in  the  library  at  Ziirich  : 
"You  have  much  too  high  an  opinion  of  it.  To  my 
notion,  it  is  not  worth  a  charge  of  powder.  I  would 
not  tolerate  it  in  my  library,  but  would  sweep  it 
out."  There  is  a  rare  charm  in  the  antique  phrase- 
in  which  the  poem  is  given,  as  there  is  in  the  lan- 
guage of  Chaucer.  It  is  like  the  broken  talk  of 
childhood,  and  through  it  the  conceptions  come  to 
the  reader  with  a  sweet  and  simple  artlessness. 

To  give  more  particularly  the  account  of  the  ori- 
gin of  the  Nibelungen  Lied,  about  one  hundred 
and  fifty  years  ago  the  Swiss  Bodmer  discovered 
in  the  castle  of  Hohenems,  in  Switzerland,  two 
bulky  manuscripts,  agreeing  in  most  respects,  and 
giving  the  text  of  something  long  forgotten.  The 
poem  had  no  title,  and  for  want  of  a  better  one,  the 
words  were  used  found  at  the  end  of  the  closing 
stanza,  —  "This  is  the  Nibelungen  Lied."  In  spite 
of  Frederick  the  Great's  disparaging  criticism,  it 
found  readers,  and  more  admired  than  condemned. 
Straightway  came  questions  :  Who  wrote  it  ?  Is  it 
possible  to  separate  in  it  the  historical  and  fabu- 
lous? and  many  more.  It  has  been  made  the  sub- 
ject of  that  microscopic  scrutiny  which  only  Ger- 


Quoted  in  the  Bibliothek  der  deutschen  Klassiker. 


THE    NIBELUNGEN  LIED.  53 

mans  seem  to  have  patience  and  strength  to  bestow. 
Of  the  labors  of  the  too  patient  scholars,  and  the 
fierce  controversies  in  which  they  have  engaged 
among  themselves,  I  propose  to  make  no  note. 
Karl  Lachmann  was  the  acute  and  persistent  critic 
who  led  the  way,  and  a  small  army  of  disciples 
came  after  to  elaborate  the  work  of  their  chief. 
Holtzmann  was  the  first  who  dared  to  question 
their  conclusions  ;  and  he  too  gained  a  considerable 
following.  The  clash  of  their  fencing  resounds  still 
in  the  philological  Jahrbiicher  and  Zeitschriften. 
Taking  as  guides  Dr.  Hermann  Fischer,  who  in 
1874  wrote  out  an  account  of  Nibelungen  studies, 
and  the  poet  Simrock,  let  the  following  be  stated 
as  to  the  poem's  origin: 

Every  rude  race  has  its  singers,  who  invent  lays 
relating  to  the  experiences  of  their  nation  and  their 
mythological  beliefs,  handing  them  down  to  suc- 
ceeding generations  by  oral  tradition.  Of  such 
minstrels,  as  has  already  been  mentioned,  the  Ger- 
mans had  an  abundance,  who  sang  with  vigorous 
imaginations  of  the  wild  deities,  of  the  heroes 
partly  human  and  partly  divine,  of  the  wanderings 
and  fightings  of  the  race  as  it  poured  out  of  Asia 
into  Europe,  sweeping  restlessly  to  and  fro  until  it 
found  stability.  When  at  length  dying  Rome  gave 
to  the  Teutons  her  sceptre,  her  civilization,  and  her 
faith,  what  had  been  oral  tradition  was  intrusted  to 
writing.  Now,  however,  the  monks  were  at  work. 
It  was  a  hard  task  to  wean  the  barbarians  from  the 
faith  and  life  of  their  fathers  ;  the  ties  by  which, 
more  than  anything  else,  they  were  bound  to  this 


54  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

old  faith  and  life  were  these  traditions.  For  sev- 
eral hundred  years,  while  the  Teutonic  tribes  were 
gradually  passing  under  the  power  of  the  cross,  the 
persistent  effort  of  the  Church  to  throw  into  oblivion 
the  traditions  of  the  past  continued.  This  effort  of 
the  Church  has  already  been  noted,  and  also  that 
Karl  the  Great  loved  well  the  songs  of  his  fathers  ; 
he  would  fain  have  preserved  them  ;  but  for  the  most 
part  they  perished.  Now  and  then  appeared  a 
churchman  in  whom  zeal  for  the  new  order  had  not 
quite  supplanted  the  old  Gothic  impulses.  Going 
from  Regensburg  to  Vienna,  the  traveller  takes  the 
steamer,  for  the  trip  down  the  Danube,  at  Passau. 
One  will  be  likely  to  remember  the  little  city,  lying 
quiet  just  where  the  blue  stream  becomes  comforta- 
bly navigable  for  the  craft  of  to-day,  and  the  black 
crag  rising  steeply  on  the  opposing  bank,  whose 
weather-beaten  brow  is  surmounted  by  the  bishop's 
castle.  It  frowns  from  the  summit  there  to-day  as 
it  has  done  for  a  thousand  years.  Here,  just  nine 
hundred  years  ago,  lived  Bishop  PiligTim,  who  one 
day  told  his  secretary,  Konrad,  to  make  a  book  out 
of  lays  he  had  heard  the  minstrels  sing.  Konrad 
faithfully  executed  the  command.  Coming  from 
the  primeval  times,  as  young  minstrels  learned 
them  from  the  lips  of  gray-beards,  to  sing  them  in 
their  turn,  each  put  into  his  version  something  of 
himself  and  of  the  time  in  which  he  lived,  until,  in 
the  many  elaborations,  the  lays  had  become  en- 
riched from  the  life  and  spirit  of  all  the  generations 
they  had  touched.  The  lays,  in  part,  were  more 
ancient  than  the  first  swarming  of  that  primeval 


THE    NIBELUNGEN  LIED.  55 

Aryan  hive.  It  is  believed  that  Konrad  was  the 
first  to  commit  the  mass  of  tradition  to  writing, 
probably  in  Latin,  probably  in  prose  i  not  a  syllable 
of  his  work  has  come  down  to  us.  In  times  that 
followed,  Konrad' s  book  was  rewrought  by  others, 
again  and  again,  until  at  length  we  reach  the  year 
1200.  Europe  was  aflame  with  the  spirit  of  the 
crusades,  and  the  hosts  then,  as  they  swept  east- 
ward in  all  the  splendor  of  steel  armor  and  knightly 
pennons,  trailed  past  the  city  of  Passau,  as  the  cur- 
rent bore  them  swiftly  on.  It  was  sometimes  a 
halting-place,  and,  for  the  entertainment  of  the 
knights,  the  minstrels  poured  in  to  sing  at  the  ban- 
quets and  in  the  intervals  of  the  tournaments. 
Then  it  was  that  some  bard,  whose  home  perhaps 
was  Kiirenberg,1  a  little  farther  down  the  stream,  a 
knight  himself,  though  with  a  soul  that  brought 
him  into  sympathy  with  the  people,  for  the  last 
time  worked  over  the  ancient  lay.  It  is  conject- 
ured that  one  of  the  manuscripts  found  a  hundred 
and  fifty  years  ago  at  Hohenems  is  the  veritable 
work  of  the  Kiirenberger,  prepare^  that  he  might 
recite  it  to  the  crusading  guests  of  the  hospitable 
bishop  of  Passau.  Whoever  the  poet  may  have 
been,  he  gave  to  his  elaboration  some  superficial 
traits  of  the  age  of  chivalry  ;  the  Mbelungen  and 
their  kings  are  nominally  Christian,  and  there  is 
much  talk  of  tournaments  and  other  mediaeval 
usages.  But  the  spirit  of  an  era  more  ancient  than 
the  introduction  of  Christianity  is  well  preserved. 


Fischer. 


56  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

The  faith  and  the  chivalry  are  mere  drapery  upon 
figures  that  belong  to  the  primeval  heathendom. 
All  the  motives  of  the  characters  are  Pagan ; 
Christianity  does  not  affect  events  or  persons.1 
The  heathenism  may  be  yielding,  but  Christianity 
nowhere  as  yet  takes  hold;  it  is  almost  entirely 
confined  to  outer  religious  observances.  A  founda- 
tion principle  of  the  personages  is  the  duty  of  re- 
venge ;  it  comes  as  a  necessary  sequel  of  fidelity, 
and  is  no  less  honored  than  fidelity. 

At  first  the  Nibelungen  Lied  was  popular.  Be- 
sides the  manuscripts  of  Hohenems,  more  than  fifty 
others  have  been  discovered,  in  a  more  or  less  frag- 
mentary condition,  and  allusions  to  the  poem  in 
writers  of  the  thirteenth  and  fourteenth  centuries 
are  not  uncommon.  Gradually,  however,  interest  in 
it  declined  ;  in  the  fifteenth  century  it  had  dropped 
from  the  knowledge  of  the  world.  At  length, 
in  the  eighteenth,  it  was  again  read  with  admiration, 
harsh  Frederick  sneering  at  the  folly  that  was  super- 
seding the  wise  forgetfulness  of  the  fathers.  In  the 
nineteenth  the  admiration  for  it  has  become  per- 
haps excessive.  It  should  be  to  the  Germans,2  it 
is  said,  all  that  Homer  was  to  the  Greeks  ;  but 
Homer,  by  the  Greeks,  was  reverenced  as  a  Bible. 

What  precisely  is  the  picture  of  primeval  Ger- 
many which  the  Nibelungen  Lied  gives  us?  His- 
torical are  the  three  Burgundian  kings,  Gunther, 
Gernot,  and  Gieseler ;  historical  is  Etzel,  or  Attila, 


Gothe. 

F.  H.  Schonhuth. 


THE    NIBELUNGEN  LIED.  57 

and  the  annihilation,  through  him,  of  the  Burgun- 
dian  royal  house ;  historical  is  Dietrich,  the  great 
Theodoric,  the  Ostrogoth.  It  is  not,  however,  in 
this  way  that  the  poem  has  a  value,  as  a  source  from 
which  is  to  be  derived  knowledge  of  particular  inci- 
dents and  individuals.  Events  are  moved  forward 
or  backward  in  time  at  the  pleasure  of  the  poet ; 
personages  made  contemporary  who  really  were 
separated  by  many  hundred  years ;  things  purely 
mythical  combined  with  facts.  The  Dietrich  of  the 
poem  is  hardly  the  Theodoric  of  history  ;  and  Etzel, 
certainly — the  quiet,  hospitable  prince,  advanced  in 
years — is  far  different  from  the  terrible  "  Scourge  of 
God"  of  the  fifth  century,  a  figure  as  tremendous 
in  the  world's  annals  as  he  is  in  the  great  picture  of 
Kaulbach  at  Berlin,  the  "Battle  of  the  Huns," 
where  he  towers  in  the  air,  scourge  in  hand,  lifted 
upon  a  shield  borne  on  the  shoulders  of  his  Huns,  a 
sublime  embodiment  of  savage  fury.  The  service 
which  the  poem  renders  history  is  of  a  far  different 
kind  from  this.  It  lies  in  the  faithful  representa- 
tion of  the  disposition  and  character  'of  the  race.1 
These  can  be  learned  not  only  more  picturesquely, 
but  more  exactly  and  surely,  than  in  formal  history. 
Hector  and  Achilles,  Agamemnon  and  JEneas  may 
be  mere  names,  inventions  of  the  poet,  not  por- 
traitures of  men ;  but  we  are,  nevertheless,  sure 
that  we  have  in  Homer  a  revelation  of  primeval 
Greece,  — its  faith,  life,  and  spirit ;  so,  through  the 
Nibelungen  Lied,  as  through  a  window,  we  behold 


1  Vilmar. 


58  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

the  Teutons  just  emerging  from  the  shadows  of  pre- 
historic night.  Lovingly  do  the  Germans  dwell 
upon  the  interesting  picture.  If  there  is  anything 
in  it  to  excite  pride,  in  that  we  are  entitled  to  share, 
brethren  as  we  are  of  the  Teutonic  household. 

The  features  of  the  ancient  external  civilization 
are  here  made  visible.  We  see  the  fondness  for 
gold,  jewels,  and  rich  apparel,  the  joy  in  hunting, 
the  passion  for  minstrelsy  and  pageants.  We  see 
the  superstitions  by  which  the  forefathers  were  mas- 
tered, —  superstitions  often  which  hold  the  race  to- 
day. Kriemhild  dreams  of  her  falcon  struck  dead 
by  the  eagle,  of  Siegfried  crushed  by  mountains  ; 
her  mother  dreams  that  the  birds  are  all  dead  on 
field  and  plain.  Straightway  they  are  interpreted  as 
forebodings  of  woe.  At  the  near  foot-fall  of  the 
murderer  the  blood  flows  afresh  in  the  wounds  of 
his  victim.  We  see  here  too  the  German  respect 
for  woman,  —  a  fine  confirmation  of  the  report  of 
Tacitus.  Siegfried,  Riidiger,  Gunther,  Etzel,  are  all 
husbands  of  one  wife,  who  sits  honored  in  the  home, 
presides  at  the  banquet,  and  welcomes  the  guest 
with  a  chaste  kiss  of  salutation.  In  narrating  the 
most  valorous  deeds  of  the  heroes,  the  poet,  instead 
of  giving  their  own  names,  often  designates  them  by 
their  wives,  as  if  to  lift  them  into  higher  honor. 
Not  Siegfried,  but  Kriemhild's  husband,  it  is  who 
thunders  victoriously  upon  a  fugitive  army ;  not 
Riidiger,  but  Gotlinde's  spouse,  goes  serenely  to- 
ward his  death.  In  the  fore-front  of  life  stands  the 
woman,  no  less  vigorous  than  tender,  a  mark  for 
deep  respect,  as  well  as  affectionate  caress.  What 


THE   NIBELUNGEN  LIED.  59 

vitality  is  theirs  !  Ten  years  after  her  marriage 
Kriemhild  is  widowed,  and  thirteen  years  after  that 
her  charms  gain  her  a  new  husband.  Six  years  later 
still  she  bears  to  Etzel  the  child  Ortlieb,  and  when 
at  length  she,  her  brethren,  and  race  have  perished, 
her  mother,  the  old  Queen  Ute,  still  hale  and  strong, 
in  the  monastery  at  Lorsch  survives  to  lament  them 
all. 

The  vitality  and  prominence  are,  in  fact,  some- 
times alarming.  Here  is  an  account  of  a  sorrowful 
experience  of  King  Gunther,  on  his  wedding-night 
at  the  hands  of  his  wife,  Brunhild,  translated,  as 
precisely  as  I  can  give  it,  from  the  old  text  of  the 
year  1200  : 

Then  when  to  meet  his  darling  the  gallant  king  did  haste, 

She  unclasped  the  band  she  wore  'round  her  waist. 

It  was  a  beauteous  girdle,  and  thereto  strong  and  tough ; 

With  that  unto  her  spouse,  the  king,  she  caused  sorrow  enough. 

She  bound  him  hand  and  foot  so  the  knots  could  not  fail ; 
Unto  the  wall  she  took  him  and  hung  him  on  a  nail. 
If  he  talked  while  she  slept,  she  made  him  hold  his  breath; 
From  her  strength  I  ween  that  he  almost  caught  his  death. 

She  did  not  ask  him  how  he  was  while  she  in  quiet  lay ; 
There  he  had  to  hang  until  the  dawn  of  day  — 
Until  through  the  window  the  morning  threw  its  streak; 
What  strength  he  had  had  vanished,  and  he  felt  tired  and  weak. 

"Ah,  well  a  day,!'  he  cried ;  "  if  I  should  lose  my  life, 
Only  think  of  the  example !     I  fear  that  every  wife 
In  all  future  time,  that  else  might  be  meek, 
To  rule  her  patient  husband  will  disastrously  seek."  l 

Far  grander,  far  more  important  than  the  picture 

1  Strophe  587  et  seq. 


60  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

of  outward  traits,  is  the  portrayal  in  the  Nibelungen 
Lied  of  the  old  Teutonic  soul.  What  did  they  love 
as  the  bright  qualities  of  manhood  ?  We  can  know 
from  the  conceptions  the  poets  drew  to  stand  for 
the  highest  heroes  and  heroines,  and  what  they  set 
before  themselves  as  ideals  we  may  be  sure  they 
made  real  in  some  part  in  their  own  lives.  Rich, 
beneficent  liberality,  so  long  as  it  has  anything  to 
give,  is  the  quality  of  the  lords  ;  gratitude,  which 
goes  out  only  with  life  itself,  is  the  quality  of  the 
man,  his  retainer ;  for  we  may  see  in  the  poem  the 
close  bond  between  vassal  and  chief,  the  institution 
which  had  its  birth  in  the  German  woods,  and,  be- 
coming connected  with  things  less  noble,  grew  up 
at  length  into  the  feudal  system.  Finer  than  the 
generosity  —  finer  even  than  the  gratitude  —  is  the 
superb  fidelity.  For  the  dear  king  and  suzerain  is 
everything  done,  —  faithful  fighting,  the  free  out- 
pouring of  blood,  and,  at  last,  of  life  ;  and  on  the 
other  hand,  not  even  in  death  do  kings  abandon 
the  faithful  servant,  but  hold  fast  even  to  the  fearful 
perishing  of  themselves  and  their  whole  race.  « '  This 
fidelity  is  the  peculiar  life-element  of  the  German 
people,  and  the  real  throbbing  heart  of  our  epic."  l 
Taking  now  the  four  leading  characters  of  the 
poem,  —  Siegfried,  Kriemhild,  Hagen,  and  Riidi- 
ger, — let  us  see  if  a  somewhat  closer  examination 
will  bear  out  the  claims.  As  to  Siegfried,2  we  are 
to  notice  that  contrasting  qualities  are  thoroughly 


Vilmar. 
Kurz. 


THE    NIBELUNGEN  LIED.  61 

harmonized  in  him.  Nothing  can  surpass  his  ten- 
derness at  times  ;  at  times  he  is  the  lion  in  spirit 
and  courage.  The  modesty  of  a  maiden  is  now  not 
more  marked  than  his  ;  again,  upon  occasion,  he 
shows  a  proud  self-consciousness,  which,  however, 
we  do  not  blame  him  for  entertaining,  and  the  ex- 
pression of  which  appears  to  be  only  a  finer  frank- 
ness. He  ventures  not  to  woo  the  beautiful  Kriem- 
hild,  even  when,  by  the  conquest  of  the  Saxons,  he 
seems  to  have  preserved  the  Burgundians  from  de- 
struction ;  for  when  he  sees  her  ' '  who  walks  like 
the  morning  redness  out  from  troubled  clouds,  who 
shines  before  other  women  as  the  still  moon  moves 
before  the  stars,"  he  is  struck  with  fear.  "  How 
could  I  have  thought  to  love  thee  !  It  is  a  vain 
illusion  ;  death  would  be  better."  He  remains  near 
her  for  twelve  days  ;  and  even  though  it  is  plain 
that  his  love  is  returned,  he  ventures  not  to  hope, 
and  is  on  the  point  of  departing  in  sorrow  to  his 
own  home  down  the  Rhine,  when  Gernot  draws  him 
back.  He  seems  to  himself  not  yet  worthy  of  the 
peerless  princess,  and  not  until  he  has  done  for 
King  Gunther  still  another  great  service  —  the  van- 
quishing of  Brunhild  in  the  contests  at  Isenstein  — 
does  he  dare  ask  for  Kriemhild's  hand.  His  affec- 
tion from  now  onward  becomes  different,  but  not 
less  warm  or  true.  Even  in  his  death-hour  it  is 
revealed  as  the  passion  of  his  soul.  **  Then  spoke, 
in  his  woe,  the  hero  wounded  to  death,  to  Gunther : 
'  If,  O  King,  you  ever  mean  in  this  world  to  be 
true  to  any  one,  I  commend  to  your  mercy  my  dear 
wife.  Let  it  be  fortunate  for  her  that  she  is  your 


62  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

sister.  With  the  virtue  becoming  a  prince,  stand 
faithfully  by  her.  Never  before  to  woman  has 
such  sorrow  come.'  "  He  is  full  of  trusting  honor. 
Not  alone  toward  his  wife,  but  in  other  relations, 
does  Siegfried  show  himself  noble.  Always  gentle, 
generous,  just,  and  forgiving,  the  hero  is  almost 
without  spot.  Possibly,  in  lending  himself  to  Gun- 
ther's  plans  and  employing  the  stratagems  by  which 
Brunhild  is  overcome,  a  want  of  openness  may  be 
seen  which  is  inconsistent  with  the  highest  concep- 
tion. It  is,  however,  but  a  momentary  stooping  to 
deceit.  He  is  for  the  most  part  thoroughly  true  to 
others,  and  expects  —  to  his  sorrow  —  that  others 
will  be  as  true  to  him. 

With  Siegfried  we  part  in  the  middle  of  the 
poem,  leaving  him  dead  in  his  adorned  coffin  in  the 
cathedral  at  Worms.  Kriemhild,1  however,  is  the 
persistent  figure  of  the  lay.  A  simple  maiden,  in 
the  shelter  of  the  palace,  she  tells  in  the  first  few 
stanzas  of  the  poem,  to  her  mother,  her  dream  of 
the  slain  falcon.  When,  at  last,  a  woman  stricken 
in  years,  she  falls  at  length  beneath  the  sweep  of  the 
sword  of  Hildebrand,  it  is  the  culmination  and  close. 
She  is  very  picturesque,  the  fierce  heathenism  of 
the  elder  time  breaking  out  in  the  characterization  in 
a  way  that  is  very  striking.  At  first,  a  bashful 
maiden,  she  cannot  think  of  a  husband  ;  but  when 
Siegfried  appears  at  Worms,  and  his  praise  resounds 
everywhere,  a  premonition  fills  her  soul  of  the  love 
that  is  to  come.  As  soon  as  she  has  become  his 

J  Kurz. 


THE   NIBELVNGEN  LIED.  63 

wife  the  shyness  of  the  virgin  vanishes ;  she  steps 
forth  among  women  with  a  matron's  dignity,  all 
whose  thoughts  and  feelings  are  centred  in  her 
husband.  He  is  to  her  the  sum  of  all  excellence, 
to  whom  nothing  is  comparable.  At  the  detraction 
of  Brunhild  she  falls  into  an  excessive  rage,  which 
our  sympathy  does  not  follow,  and  the  quarrel 
results  whose  sequel  is  to  be  so  sad  for  her.  It  is 
an  excess  of  wifely  love ;  and  it  is  an  excess  too 
which  makes  her  happiness  to  conclude  with  the 
death  of  Siegfried  ;  for  during  the  many  years  that 
follow,  sorrow  alone  it  is  which  colors  her  life,  bound 
up  as  she  is  in  the  recollection  of  her  lost  love. 
Thus  far  in  Kriemhild  we  have  a  picture  of  the 
loveliest  maidenhood  and  womanhood,  only  defective 
in  that  wifely  devotion  is  made  to  go  too  far.  The 
portrait  is  unique  in  German  mediaeval  literature, 
yet  it  could  have  been  drawn  by  no  one  but  a 
Teutonic  poet,  and  the  hearts  of  all  of  Teuton  stock 
go  forth  towards  it.  It  can  stand  with  the  most 
beautiful  pictures  of  all  times  and  races. 

But  what  shall  be  said  of  the  Kriemhild  that 
follows?  With  maidenhood  and  wifehood  behind 
her,  she  broods  in  widow's  weeds  over  her  sorrow. 
The  imperishable  affection  which  inspires  her  gives 
birth  to  a  heathenish  outcome,  which  the  minstrel, 
filled  with  no  faith  but  that  of  the  primeval  forests, 
develops,  apparently  without  a  thought  of  disap- 
proval, until  Kriemhild  blazes  luridly  forth  in  the 
character  of  a  fury.  Her  soul  becomes  filled  with 
the  desire  for  revenge.  It  is  Hagen  who  has  slain 
Siegfried,  and  he  must  expiate  the  crime.  Terrible 


64  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

as  Kriemhild  appears  in  the  closing  scenes,  demand- 
ing new  thousands  for  slaughter,  and  at  length 
bathing  her  hands  in  her  brother's  blood,  she  does 
not  lose  our  sympathy  entirely.  Really,  the  fury  of 
the  end  is  not  inconsistent  with  the  timid  maid  who 
looks  from  her  retired  window,  in  the  early  scenes, 
upon  Siegfried  prancing  with  his  retinue  in  the 
plain;  her  revengefulness  is,  so  to  speak,  but  a 
phase  of  her  fidelity,  —  a  distortion  of  her  undving 
love,  which  by  circumstances  is  led  into  excesses 
not  planned  before.  She  carries  the  revenge  to  a 
terrible  extreme,  but  the  poet  has  given  a  most 
reasonable  account  of  it,  developing  the  dreadful 
issue,  not  merely  from  Kriemhild' s  character,  but 
also  from  the  connection  of  events.1  It  is  Hagen 
only  whom  she  seeks  to  reach  ;  but  the  Nibelungen 
have  gone  into  the  land  of  the  Huns  bound  together 
as  one  man ;  if  he  dies,  the  kings  and  nobles  of 
Burgundy  must  die  with  him.  She  can  only  reach 
her  end,  so  fixed  is  the  reciprocal  fealty  between 
lord  and  dependent,  by  the  destruction  of  all.  Re- 
call how  it  is  that  Kriemhild,  step  by  step,  is  pushed 
into  the  horrors.  She  invites  the  Nibelungen  to 
Etzel's  court  with  deceitful  cordiality,  to  be  sure  ; 
but  to  avenge  Siegfried  in  some  way  is,  in  her 
unregenerate  soul,  a  paramount  duty.  She  con- 
templates no  wholesale  murder,  but  only  the  pun- 
ishment of  Hagen.  He,  by  his  insulting  bearing, 
enrages  her  still  more,  and  at  length  makes  her  des- 
perate. The  deaths  of  Gunther  and  Hagen  are,  as 

1  Kurz. 


THE    NIBELUNGEN  LIED.  65 

it  were,  forced  upon  her,  through  Hagen' s  defiant 
scorn.  Terrible  is  the  picture  which  the  poet,  with 
unsparing  hand,  draws,  —  fit  for  unconverted  barba- 
rians. Husband  gone,  child  killed,  Etzel's  knight- 
hood all  lying  slain,  Kriemhild  seems  forced  by  an 
irresistible  power  to  annihilate  him  who  has  robbed 
her  of  everything.  Great  though  the  gulf  is,  it 
has  been  finely  said,1  which  is  opened  between  the 
tender  maid,  palpitating  with  first  love,1  and  the 
murderous  fury,  yet  it  is  perfectly  intelligible. 
We  feel  it  is  the  same  power  of  love  which  at  first 
leads  her  to  the  breast  of  Siegfried,  and  at  last 
raises  her  arm  for  the  stroke  that  kills  her  brother. 
Still  more  picturesque  than  in  Kriemhild  is  the 
mingling  of  dark  and  light  in  the  grim  Hagen.  The 
retainer  of  Gunther,  to  whom  he  is  unswervingly 
faithful  in  sorrow  and  joy,  performing  in  his  behalf 
deeds  of  the  blackest  treachery  and  murder,  deeds 
of  the  noblest  sacrifice  and  most  unshrinking  cour- 
age, he  is  a  truly  appalling  blending  of  the  angel 
and  the  devil.  He  appears  first  as  the  man  of  wide 
experience,  who,  when  the  Burgundians  are  trying 
to  make  out  Siegfried,  approaching  suddenly  with 
his  shining  Nibelungen,  must  be  called  in  to  tell 
who  they  are.  When,  at  length,  Kriemhild  and 
Brunhild  have  fiercely  quarreled,  it  is  Hagen  who,  in 
savage  fidelity,  becomes  the  instrument  of  revenge 
to  the  wife  of  his  lord.  Perhaps  a  twinge  of  jeal- 
ousy comes  in  to  influence  him,  since  Siegfried  has 
so  for  surpassed  him  in  exploits ;  but  his  motive  is, 

1  Kurz. 


66  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

in  the  main,  to  do  the  will  of  those  to  whom  he  is 
bound.  By  blackest  treachery  he  wins  from  Kriem- 
hild  the  revelation  as  to  Siegfried's  vulnerability 
between  the  shoulders,  where  the  linden  leaf  fell  as 
he  was  bathing  in  the  dragon's  blood.  Most  foully 
he  uses  his  knowledge,  casting  the  murderous  jave- 
lin when  Siegfried,  unsuspecting,  stoops  to  drink  at 
the  spring.  When  Siegfried,  in  his  death-agony,  by 
his  appeals  melts  the  confederates  of  Hagen,  the 
dark-faced  ruffian,  whose  eyes  are  described  as  al- 
ways darting  rapid  glances,  stands  unmoved,  reply- 
ing with  exulting  insolence  to  the  upbraidings  of  his 
victim.  In  the  same  spirit  he  orders  that  the  corpse 
shall  be  borne  to  be  placed  at  Kriemhild's  door,  at 
Worms  ;  and  his  self-centred  coolness  is  not  affected 
when,  before  the  whole  world,  as  he  steps  to  the  side 
of  the  body,  the  wounds  bleed  afresh  in  the  mur- 
derer's presence.  This  is  all  the  harshest  savagery, 
and  so  too  his  subsequent  treatment  of  Kriemhild, 
whom  he  always  cruelly  thwarts,  taking  from  her 
the  Nibelungen  treasure  to  hurl  it  in  the  Rhine, 
and  at  length  opposing  her  nuptials  with  Etzel. 

When  at  last  Kriemhild,  seeking  revenge,  invites 
the  Burgundians  to  Etzel' s  court,  the  wary  Hagen 
penetrates  her  purpose  and  holds  back.  When, 
however,  the  journey  is  resolved  upon,  he  follows 
resolutely  the  lead  of  his  masters.  The  supernat- 
ural prophetess  makes  known  to  him  his  own  fate, 
and  that  of  the  entire  host.  He  cannot  change  the 
purpose  of  his  lords ;  no  more  can  he  abandon 
them,  —  for  is  not  fidelity  entwined  with  his  very 
life?  Grimly  he  moves  through  the  festivities  and 


THE    NIBELUNGEN  LIED.  67 

pageants  which  precede  the  final  slaughters.  Recoil- 
ing before  his  swarthy,  tempestuous  countenance, 
the  lovely  Dietlinde,  when,  at  her  father's  (Riidi- 
ger's)  bidding,  she  gives  the  kiss  of  welcome  to  his 
guests,  starts  back  in  alarm.  He  rides  unsmiling 
amid  the  welcoming  multitudes,  and  at  length,  side 
by  side  with  Volker,  sits  before  Etzel's  court,  beheld 
at  length  by  Kriemhild.  Touching  is  the  bond  of 
friendship  which  the  doomed  servitor  enters  into 
with  the  minstrel  Volker  ;  cruel,  and  yet  most  lion- 
like  is  his  bearing — the  sublimity  of  hardihood  — 
when,  before  Kriemhild's  troop,  he  coolly  lays 
across  his  knees  Balmung,  the  sword  of  Siegfried, 
and  glories  in  his  murder.  "Who  sent  for  you 
here,  Lord  Hagen,  that  you  dared  to  ride  hither? 
You  know  what  you  have  done  for  me."  "  No  one 
has  sent  for  me,"  replies  Hagen.  "Three  kings 
have  been  invited  hither ;  they  are  my  masters, 
I  am  their  vassal.  Where  they  are,  am  I  also." 
"You  know,"  continues  Kriemhild,  "why  I  hate 
you.  You  slew  Siegfried,  and  for  that  I  must  weep 
until  death."  "Why  talk  longer,"  bursts  out  Ha- 
gen. "  Yes,  I,  Hagen, — I  slew  Siegfried,  the  hero, 
because  Kriemhild  rebuked  the  beautiful  Brunhild. 
Let  him  avenge  it  who  will." 

In  the  fearful  scenes  that  follow,  Hagen  towers 
merciless,  gigantic  as  another  Thor,  yet  with  a  heart 
full  of  friendship,  and  toward  Riidiger  at  length  he 
shows  affecting  gratitude.  The  tie  that  binds  him 
to  Gunther,  Gernot,  and  Gieseler  is  of  adamant, 
which  cannot  be  broken  ;  and  just  as  true  on  their 
side  are  the  kings  to  their  vassal.  Truly  piteous  is 


68  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

the  outcry  of  the  young  Gieselcr  to  Kriemhild : 
"Ah,  fair  sister,  how  could  I  have  believed  to  see 
this  great  calamity  when  you  invited  me  here  from 
the  Rhine?  How  have  I  deserved  death  in  a  for- 
eign land?  Faithful  was  I  always  to  thee,  and  never 
did  thee  harm.  I  hoped  to  find  thee  loving  to  me  ; 
let  me  die  quickly,  if  it  must  be  so."  Kriemhild 
demands  to  have  only  Hagen  given  up.  "I  will  let 
you  live,  for  you  are  my  brothers  ;  we  are  children 
of  one  mother.'  "  Let  us  die  with  Hagen,  since 
die  we  must,"  cries  Gieseler.  "  Let  us  die  with 
Hagen,  even  were  there  a  thousand  of  us  of  one 
stock,"  says  Gernot.  They  will  be  faithful  to  him 
until  death.  Forward  they  go,  smiting  and  smitten, 
falling  one  by  one,  friend  and  foe  heaped  in  the  car- 
nage, until  at  length  Hagen,  —  last  of  the  race,  —  in 
bonds  and  wounded  to  death,  confronts  Kriemhild 
alone.  If  Hagen  will  restore  to  her  the  treasure  of 
the  Nibelungen,  given  to  her  by  Siegfried,  long  ago 
thrown  by  him  into  the  Rhine,  even  now  he  may 
live.  "Now  is  dead,"  cries  Hagen,  "the  noble 
Burgundian  king,  as  also  the  young  Gieseler  and 
Gernot.  No  one  knows  now  the  place  of  the  treas- 
ure but  God  and  I  alone.  From  thee  it  shall  be 
forever  hidden."  With  these  words  he  bows  be- 
neath the  stroke,  and  the  fierce  life  goes  out.  The 
ideal  of  a  savage  hero  !  A  figure  fascinating  through 
all  its  repulsiveness  !  Such  cruelty,  such  unscrupu- 
lousness,  such  manful  virtue ! 

But  to  my  mind  the  glory  of  the  Nibelungen  Lied 
is  the  grand  story  of  the  Margrave  Riidiger,  noblest 
of  the  heroes.  There  is  not  a  point  of  the  charac- 


THE    NIRELUNGEN  LIED.  69 

terization  hero  that  does  not  excite  admiration.  He 
appears  at  first  as  the  messenger  sent  by  Etzel  to 
win  the  hand  of  Kriemhild.  He  departs  in  state 
from  Bechlarn,  his  castle,  proceeds  to  Worms,  and 
with  all  the  forms  of  knightly  ceremony  demands 
the  princess  for  his  master.  When  at  length  the 
suit  is  successful,  and  Kriemhild  leaves  the  Rhine, 
on  her  way  to  the  distant  land  of  the  Huns,  Riidi- 
ger  receives  her  on  the  frontier  with  the  finest  hos- 
pitalitv.  His  wife,  Gotlinde,  shows  her  all  possi- 
ble respect,  and  together  they  speed  her  on  her  way. 
Still  finer,  however,  is  the  hospitality  shown  when 
at  length  the  Nibclungcu,  their  kings  at  their  head, 
pass  through  the  land  to  visit  Kriemhild.  Riidiger 
receives  the  thousands  of  them,  and  the  days  pass 
with  music  and  feasting.  The  incidents  are  most 
attractive  when  Gotlinde  and  Dietlinde,  the  wife 
and  daughter  of  Riidiger,  salute  with  a  chaste  kiss 
the  princes,  and  when  the  beautiful  daughter  recoils 
with  fear  before  the  sinister  look  of  Hagen.  In  sign 
of  friendship,  Riidiger  gives  Gernot  his  sword ;  and 
becomes  still  further  bound  to  his  guests  when  at 
length  Gieseler  and  Dietlinde  love  one  another, 
and  are  betrothed.  In  company  with  the  strangers 
from  the  Rhine,  at  length  he  goes  down  the  Danube. 
The  meeting  with  Kriemhild  takes  place,  and  pres- 
ently begin  the  horrors.  Riidiger  holds  aloof  until 
at  length,  commanded  by  his  lord,  he  is  forced  to 
stand  forth.  The  struggle  in  his  noble  spirit  be- 
tween his  duty  toward  his  sovereign  and  his  obliga- 
tion toward  those  who  have  been  his  guests  and  be- 
come his  close  friends  is  most  pathetic.  It  is  hard 
to  conceive  of  a  situation  more  tragically  pictu- 


70  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

resque ;  he  is  rent  asunder,  as  it  were,  by  two 
angels.  Here  at  length  is  the  account  of  his  end,  in 
a  translation,  in  which  I  have  striven  to  give  the 
rugged,  irregular  movement  as  well  as  the  simple 
pathos  of  the  original  lines  : 

"Ah,  woe  is  me !  that  I  must  live  to  see  this  day. 
All  my  cherished  honor  I  must  put  away ; 
All  the  truth  and  faith  which  God  commanded  me. 
O,  would  to  Heaven  that  I  through  death  this  trouble  now  might 
flee." 

Then  spoke  to  the  king  the  hero  true  and  bold : 
"  Take  back,  O  Lord  Etzel,  what  I  from  you  hold ; 
My  land  and  my  castles,  I  give  them  back  to  thee, 
And  empty-handed  now  will  I  go  forth  into  misery. 

"The  Nibeiungen  strangers,  how  can  I  them  molest? 
Within  my  castle  walls  I  have  welcomed  each  as  guest. 
Together  at  the  board  we  have  broken  bread; 
Gifts  I  have  bestowed,  —  am  I  now  to  strike  them  dead?" 

Kriemhild  and  Etzcl,  however,  are  inexorable. 
Riidiger  resolves  to  go  forth,  sure  of  finding  death. 
He  gives  a  last  charge  to  his  suzerain : 

"  To  thee  must  revert  my  castles  and  my  land ; 
I  shall  fall  to-day  by  some  Nibeiungen  hand. 
My  wife  and  my  child  I  now  commit  to  thee, 
And  all  my  poor  retainers,  who  then  must  homeless  be." 

He  arms  and  goes  forth,  with  five  hundred  fol- 
lowers. The  Nibeiungen  think  at  first  he  is  coming 
to  their  assistance  ;  when  he  undeceives  them,  they 
sorrowfully  upbraid  him. 

"I  would  to  God,"  said  Riidiger,  "O  heroes,  that  ye  were 
Back  by  the  Rhine's  fair  river,  and  I  lay  lifeless  here. 
So  might  I  save  mine  honor,  which  now  I  must  resign ; 
Ne'er  yet  from  friends  has  hero  caught  such  sorrow  and  shame  as 


THE   NIBELUNGEN  LIED.  71 

Sorrowfully  and  affectionately  the  Nibelungen 
deprecate  the  contest,  but  Rudiger  is  unbending. 
When  at  length  Hagen  complains  that  his  shield  is 
broken,  the  margrave  says  : 

"Take  mine,  take  mine,  O  Hagen,  and  carry  it  in  your  hand; 
Would  that  thou  mightest  bt-ar  it  home  to  the  Nihelungen  land!" 
"When  he  his  shield  thus  willingly  to  Hagen  offered  had, 
The  eyes  of  many  standing  by  with  weeping  became  red. 

Though  grim  the  ruthless  Hagen,  his  heart  though  hard  and  stern, 
Yet,  as  he  took  the  shield,  his  heart  with  pity  and  love  did  burn. 
"Now  God  reward  you,  most  noble  Riidiger! 
On  earth  your  equal  can  be  found  nowhere. 
Heaven  pity  us,  that  now  our  swords  'gainst  friends  we  take !  " 
Then  spoke  the  margrave,  bent  with  grief:    "For  that  my  heart 
doth  break." 

Hagen  refuses  to  fight,  and  retires.  Riidiger  over- 
comes many  Nibelungen  ;  at  length  Gernot  comes 
forward,  with  the  sword  he  had  received  as  a  gift 
from  Rudiger,  at  Bechlarn. 

Sharp  cut  the  swords ;  no  ward  against  them  could  avail. 
On  Gernot's  helmet  fell  the  blows  of  Rudiger  like  hail ; 
At  last  'twas  beaten  in,  although  'twas  hard  as  stone. 
For  the  mortal  wound  of  Gernot  the  margrave  must  atone. 

Though  struck  he  was  with  death,  high  swung  he  Riidiger's  gift ; 
He  smote  the  margrave's  helmet-bands  with  strokes  heavy  and 

swift. 

He  smote  him  unto  death  through  his  armor  fast; 
Both  heroes  fell,  and  breathed  out  their  lives  at  last.- 

Hospitable,  generous,  brave,  pitying,  faithful  unto 
death,  —  what  quality  in  the  heroic  catalogue  do  we 
here  miss  ?  We  can  hardly  find  fault  with  the  en- 


Strophe  2090  et  seq. 


72  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

thusiastic  declaration  of  the  poet, — who,  more 
deeply  perhaps  than  any  man  of  our  day,  has  pen- 
etrated into  the  spirit  of  this  old  literature,  —  that 
the  death  of  Riidiger  is  the  most  touching  episode 
to  be  found  in  heroic  poetry.1 

There  are  so  many  points  of  resemblance  be- 
tween the  Nibelungeu  Lied  and  the  Iliad  and  Odys- 
sey of  Homer  that  it  is  almost  impossible  to  speak 
of  the  former  without  making  some  comparison  be- 
tween them.  As  the  Homeric  poetry  is  amber,  se- 
creted in  the  morning  of  the  world  from  a  magnifi- 
cent stock  which  long  since  was  hewn  down  and  has 
perished,  — precious  amber,  in  which  has  been  em- 
balmed for  us  and  for  immortality  the  quintessen- 
tial quality  of  the  vanished  Hellenic  soul,  —  so  is  the 
Nibelungen  Lied  an  exudation  from  the  spirit  of  the 
primeval  Teutons,  wildly  fragrant  even  yet,  from 
their  barbarian  wanderings  in  the  wintry,  unsunned 
forests  of  prehistoric  time.  As  to  the  origin  of  the 
poems,  the  same  controversies  have  prevailed. 
Shall  we  say  that  one  bard  was  the  writer  in  each 
case  ;  or  is  each  pieced  work  the  lays  of  many  poets 
combined  into  one  whole  ;  and  if  this  is  true,  what 
shall  we  say  of  the  piecer?  Was  his  work  an  inar- 
tistic setting  together  of  the  fragments  that  came  to 
his  hand  ;  or  were  they  matched  and  blended  with 
taste,  —  heated  and  hammered  over  anew  by  a  great 
genius,  —  as  he  shaped  them  into  an  exquisite  master- 
piece? The  probable  answer  to  these  questions  in 
the  case  of  the  Teutonic  epic  has  been  given  ;  a  sim- 


1  Karl  Simrock. 


THE    NIBELUNGEN  LIED.  73 

ilar  answer  best  satisfies  many  modern  scholars  in 
the  case  of  Homer.  Can  the  Nibelungen  Lied  ever 
be  considered  such  a  treasure  as  the  Iliad  and 
Odyssey?  Probably  not.  The  best  German  au- 
thorities, with  all  their  enthusiasm,  do  not  venture 
to  claim  that.  It  does  not  give  in  its  manifoldness 
the  human  character,  as  do  the  Homeric  poems. 
Siegfried  and  Hagen  can  never  replace  Achilles  and 
Hector.1  In  outer  completeness  it  must  stand  be- 
hind the  Iliad.  In  the  great  general  plan  a  compari- 
son is  possible,  but  in  perfection  of  execution  the 
Greek  is  superior.2  In  one  point,  however,  —  and 
it  is  an  important  one,  —  I  believe  we  may  claim  for 
the  Nibelungen  Lied  an  incontestible  superiority  to 
Homer,  — depth  of  moral  sensibility.  It  may  be  de- 
scribed as,  throughout,  a  portrayal  of  one  form  or 
another  of  faithfulness  to  duty.  The  spring  of  Ha- 
gen's  career,  from  first  to  last,  is  fealty  to  his  king 
and  queen,  whether  he  murders  and  betrays,  or  pro- 
tects at  the  cost  of  his  own  life.  Fidelity  of  another 
kind  is,  throughout,  the  motive  of  Kriemhild, — 
distorted  at  length  into  a  strange  frenzy  of  devo- 
tion, in  which  she  sacrifices  her  brothers,  herxhus- 
band's  entire  knighthood,  and  her  own  race.  It  is 
fidelity  again  that  makes  the  nobleness  of  Riidiger  ; 
it  is  the  struggle  between  two  forms  of  it  which 
makes  the  crisis  in  his  career,  —  tearing  his  heart 
asunder,  so  that  with  one  hand  he  deals  a  blow, 
while  with  the  other  he  gives  a  shield  by  which  it 


Gervinus. 
tSimrock. 


74  GERMAN   LITERATURE. 

may  be  warded  off,  in  a  sublimity  of  distraction. 
Search  Homer  as  we  may,  and  we  can  find  nothing 
to  match  these  pictures.  The  scene  is  a  fine  one 
when  the  raging  Diomede  meets  with  hostile  pur- 
pose the  champion  Glaucus,  and  the  two,  mindful  of 
the  ancient  guest-right  in  which  their  fathers  have 
stood,  forbear  their  fighting, — to  exchange  arms 
and  plight  new  friendship.1  Andromache  laments, 
amiably,  the  long-lost  Hector ; 2  Penelope  can  be 
constant  through  twenty  years,  and  the  pious  Tele- 
machus  wanders  in  search  of  his  long-lost  father. 
These  are  passages  of  great  tenderness  ;  but  how 
faint  in  comparison  with  the  passionate  devotedness 
upon  which,  as  upon  a  thread  red  with  German 
heart's  blood,  the  strophes  of  the  Nibelungen  Lied 
throughout  are  strung.3  The  German  epic  has, 
plainly,  its  inferiorities  ;  but  it  has,  too,  this  superi- 
ority. Great  in  its  day  was  the  Hellenic  race, — in 
hand  and  heart,  in  thought,  in  art,  and  in  arms  ; 
until  at  length  it  was  smitten  by  the  Roman  mace, 
and,  becoming  defiled  with  base  intermixture,  went 
sadly  to  ruin.  The  promise  of  all  this  greatness 
shines  in  the  poems  which  came  from  it  in  its  morn- 
ing. So  too  in  Siegfried  and  Riidiger  —  yes,  in 
Kriemhild  and  Hagen  —  we  may  read  a  promise  of 
Teutonic  mastery. 

Among  the  most  impressive  of  modern  paintings 
is  one  by  Delaroche,  in  which  two  figures,  typifying 
respectively  the  ancient  Hellenic  spirit  and  the  spirit 


1  Iliad,  vi. 

2  Iliad,  xxii. 
s  Vilmar. 


THE    NIBELUNGEN  LIED.  75 

of  mediaeval  times,  when  the  Teutons  were  coming  to 
be  leaders,  are  represented  as  sitting  side  by  side. 
The  type  of  Greece  is  a  superbly  beautiful  woman, 
whose  features  are  of  absolutely  faultless  regularity, 
whose  drapery  falls  in  perfectly  classic  folds.  The 
face,  however,  is  cold ;  the  calm  eyes  down-turned, 
without  a  trace  of  inspiration.  The  companion  figure 
is  less  beautiful ;  the  face  is  of  the  German  type  ;  the 
hair  streams  back  disordered  ;  the  folds  of  the  robe 
are  less  statuesque ;  but  the  countenance  is  turned 
upward,  and  warm  with  soul.  From  the  eyes  an 
aspiration  leaps  forth  toward  the  heavens  ;  the  brow 
is  anxious,  as  if  it  felt  the  weight  of  obligation  which 
could  not  be  fully  discharged  ;  the  lips  burst  open 
from  within  by  the  struggling  forth  of  some  heart- 
birth  of  rhapsody.  In  some  such  contrast,  to  my 
mind,  stand  Homer  and  the  Nibelungen  Lied. 

No  American  capable  of  the  finer  impressions  can 
set  foot,  for  the  first  time,  on  the  soil  of  Europe 
without  a  thrill.  In  our  land  we  have  no  past  be- 
hind us  ;  our  surroundings  are  all  of  the  present, 
and  suggest  nothing  beyond  yesterday.  In  the  Old 
World  a  solemn  perspective  of  ages  lies,  as  it  were, 
behind  all  that  we  see.  Each  stream,  each  mount, 
each  weather-scarred  town  and  tower,  has  a  hundred 
great  associations  of  history  that  touch  a  sensitive 
spirit  beyond  the  power  of  words  to  express.  If 
one  be  at  all  of  a  romantic  nature,  he  will  be  carried 
backward  into  those  dimmer  regions  of  legend  with 
which  this  chapter  has  been  occupied,  —  the  misty 
twilight  which  intervenes  between  authentic  story 


76  GERMAN   LITERATURE. 

and  the  utter  darkness  from  which  our  race  proceeds. 
Once  I  made  the  pilgrimage  down  the  Danube  from 
Regensburg  to  Vienna.  Marcus  Aurelius  and  Julian, 
Karl  the  Great  and  Richard  Cceur  de  Lion,  Gusta- 
vus,  Wallenstein,  Napoleon, — so  impressive  a  series 
of  the  world's  heroes  as  this  have  made  the  blue 
current  upon  which  you  are  borne  along  memorable 
with  their  exploits, — that,  and  the  towering  hills 
and  wide  plains  between  which  you  pass.  Often, 
however,  it  was  to  the  shadowy  phantoms  of  the 
ancient  poem  that  my  mind  surrendered  itself,  and 
these  were  so  overmastering  sometimes  as  to  leave 
scant  room  for  the  shapes  substantial  and  authentic, 
august  as  these  are.  So  I  believe  it  must  be  with 
whoever  submits  himself  to  the  fascination  of  the 
primeval  minstrels. 

At  Passau  the  river  Inn,  still  cold  from  the 
glaciers  of  Tyrol,  swells  the  current  of  the  Danube 
so  that  it  becomes  navigable.  When  you  leave  the 
train  that  has  brought  you  thus  far  from  Regens- 
burg for  the  little  steamer  that  is  to  carry  you  on- 
ward to  Linz,  in  the  pause  before  starting,  throw 
your  gaze  across  the  river  upon  the  black  and  tower- 
ing crag  and  the  fastness  on  its  summit.  Here  it 
was  that  a  good  bishop,  the  uncle  of  Kriemhild,  re- 
ceived her  on  her  way  to  Etzel.  There,  too,  in 
some  secluded  cell,  nearly  a  thousand  years  ago, 
wrought  patient  Konrad,  —  while  the  monks  threat- 
ened him  for  dealing  with  forbidden  lore,  —  compil- 
ing the  legends  perishing  from  the  people's  mouths, 
that  a  successor  of  genius  might  elaborate  them  into 
the  masterpiece  that  has  survived.  Think,  too,  of 


THE    NIBELUNGEN  LIED.  77 

the  crusading  hosts,  inspired  by  Peter  the  Hermit, 
sweeping  with  their  steel  and  scarfs  and  pennons, 
with  steeds  of  noble  mettle,  and  glittering  shrines 
filled  with,  relics,  pausing  for  a  bivouac  in  the 
meadows  where  stands  the  town  to-day !  Among 
the  tents  appears  a  reverend  singer,  and  chants  to 
the  chiefs  while  they  lie  for  a  day,  with  armor  thrown 
aside,  the  ringing  strophes  in  which  the  harsh  hero- 
ism of  their  ancestors  and  ours  lies  embalmed. 

At  last  it  is  Vienna  itself  you  will  see,  the  capi- 
tal, rolling  vast  out  upon  its  plain,  with  the  pinnacle 
of  Saint  Stephen's  spire  soaring  into  the  air  almost 
five  hundred  feet.  If  you  ascend  it,  you  will  have 
before  you  the  broad  Marchfeld,  whereon  lie  the  vil- 
lages of  Aspern  and  Wagram.  There  too  rode  So- 
bieski  and  his  host,  —  uplifted  crescents  and  horse- 
tail standards  storming 'against  him,  —  when  Islam 
was  terrible.  And,  still  earlier,  it  was  there  that  bold 
Rudolph  of  Hapsburg  defeated  and  slew  Ottocar, 
king  of  Bohemia,  and  founded  a  dynasty  beside 
which  almost  every  other  reigning  house  appears 
ephemeral.  Go  back  of  all  these ;  think  of  the 
trooping  chivalry  of  the  Huns,  the  twenty-four  trib- 
utary kings  and  their  sparkling  retinues,  the  lavish 
splendor  and  innumerable  gifts,  when  Etzel  cele- 
brated at  length  the  coming  of  his  queen. 

But  if  the  East  is  interesting,  even  more  so  is  the 
West, — the  old  Nibelungen  home.  Worms,  the  an- 
cient city,  sits,  as  of  old,  in  the  midst  of  the  broad 
field,  the  hills  of  the  Odenwald  ranging  blue  before 
it.  The  French  of  Louis  XIV. 's  time  burnt  it  to 
the  ground ;  the  streets  seem  scarcely  older  than 


78  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

those  of  an  American  city,  but  there  is  one  antique 
pile,  some  parts  of  which  we  may  easily  imagine  go 
back  to  the  reign  of  Gunther.  It  is  the  cathedral,  — 
one  of  the  most  ancient  in  Germany,  as  beautiful  as 
venerable.  The  rounded  arches  speak  of  a  time 
when,  as  yet,  the  Gothic  was  not ;  upon  the  black- 
ened pinnacles  and  quaint  ornaments  of  buttress  and 
keystone  have  gazed  in  turn  the  men  of  nearly 
thirty  generations.  As  you  enter  within  the  sombre 
shadows,  it  will  be  thrilling  to  you  if  you  can  go 
back  in  imagination  to  its  earliest  time,  and  make 
yourself  feel  that  the  figures  of  the  old  poet  had 
once  some  real  existence  here.  What  massiveness 
in  the  columns,  and  how  heavily  majestic  the  rounded 
arches  turn,  high  overhead,  in  the  dusky  gloom, 
which  sunbeam  can  never  reach  !  What  dim,  relig- 
ious light !  How  worn  the  pavement,  from  the 
pressure  of  knees  which  have  bent  here  and  then 
mouldered,  in  a  succession  whose  length  we  strive 
in  vain  to  compass  !  The  minstrel  must  have  known 
the  pile ;  try  to  believe  that  Siegfried  and  Kriem- 
hild,  and  the  fierce-glancing  Hagen  knew  it  too. 
There,  in  the  space  before  the  portal,  Kriemhild  and 
Brunhild  strove  for  precedence,  —  the  outburst  of 
haughtiness  for  which  a  hero  died  and  a  whole  race 
must  at  length  fall.  Here  knelt  Kriemhild,  while 
as  yet  she  was  lovable  ;  and  here  lay  the  slain  Sieg- 
fried, in  his  gem-incrusted  coffin,  the  beauty  not  yet 
effaced  on  brow  and  form. 

But  grandest  of  all  is  the  Rhine.  The  German 
has  thrust  forward  his  frontiers  and  taken  the  stream 
into  the  heart  of  the  Fatherland.  It  flows,  as  it 


THE   NIBELUNGEN  LIED.  79 

were,  from  first  to  last  through  his  history;  for 
there  is  not  a  generation  to  which  its  banks  have 
not  been  memorable.  It  flows  through  his  poetry 
from  first  to  last ;  the  minstrel  of  the  Nibelungen 
Lied  gives  the  name  throughout  his  strophes  in 
thousandfold  affectionate  repetition, —  as  a  lover 
murmurs  the  name  of  his  darling.  It  reverberates 
in  the  songs  of  every  age,  and  never  was  the  German 
lyre  more  enamored  of  it  than  to-day.  The  Ehine, 
the  glorious  Rhine  !  It  would  seem,  sometimes,  as 
if  the  German  would  take  it  bodily  into  his  arms. 
I  saw  once  a  performance  of  "  Rhein-Gold,"  the 
prelude  to  the  great  trilogy  of  Wagner,  "  The  Ring 
of  the  Niebelungen."  Above  me  sat,  in  his  orna- 
mented box,  the  king  of  Bavaria,  who  had  given  the 
artist  carte-blanche  for  his  representation  among  the 
revenues  of  his  kingdom.  At  first,  in  some  inde- 
scribable way,  as  the  curtain  rose,  the  Rhine  seemed 
flowing  past  us  on  the  stage.  We  looked  into  its 
deeps  as  into  the  sides  of  an  aquarium.  Far  upward 
toward  the  roof  the  sunlight  seemed  to  glitter  on  the 
wavelets  of  the  surface  ;  the  weeds  below  swayed  to 
the  shouldering  current ;  the  fair  spirits,  with  whom 
legend  peoples  its  abysses,  swam  white-armed  Be- 
fore us,  singing  amid  their  buoyant  curvings, — 
now  floating  to  the  surface,  now  sinking  slowly 
to  the  depths.  And  what  glittered  at  the  bottom? 
It  was  a  mysterious  treasure,  like  the  Niebelungen 
hoard,  won  by  Siegfried  in  his  youth,  brought  after- 
ward to  Kriemhild,  at  Worms,  thrown  at  length  into 
the  stream  between  Worms  and  Lorsch  by  Hagen, 
the  knowledge  of  its  hiding-place  perishing  from  the 


80  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

earth  with,  him  !  They  had  taken  the  beloved  river 
bodily,  as  it  were,  into  their  arms,  and  from  prince 
and  people  went  up  a  shout  of  joy. 

A  few  months  upon  its  banks,  and  even  a  stran- 
ger will  catch,  by  contagion,  something  of  the  glow. 
I  have  leaped  across  it  high  up  at  the  pass  of  the 
Splugen,  where  it  makes  its  way,  a  thread-like  rill, 
from  its  parent  glacier.  At  its  mouth  I  sailed  out 
upon  its  waters  to  the  dark  North  Sea.  Midway  in 
its  course  I  have  crossed  it  at  Strassburg,  where 
score  upon  score  of  armies  have  passed,  — some  east, 
some  west ;  some  shouting  victors,  some  groaning 
vanquished,  —  in  the  mighty  series  from  the  time 
when  the  chief  of  the  Marcomanni  went  over  it 
to  meet  Julins  Caesar,  to  the  passage  of  the  crown 
prince  of  Prussia  on  his  way  to  Weissenbourg  and 
Worth.  But  I  love  to  remember  it  best  as  I  saw  it 
from  a  high  hill  of  the  Odenwald.  The  crag  on 
which  I  stood  might  have  echoed  the  horn  of  Sieg- 
fried, as  he  joyfully  hunted  on  the  morning  of  his 
death.  The  April  rain-drops  on  grass  and  foliage 
shone  like  the  jewels  that  fell  from  his  shield,  as  in 
his  death-struggle  he  smote  at  his  murderer.  Far 
below  in  the  plain  lay  the  city  of  Worms,  the  cathe- 
dral looming  dark  against  the  sky.  The  great  river 
trailed  some  leagues  of  its  length  at  my  feet,  and  at 
one  loop  the  setting  sun  made  it  glow  with  a  ruddy 
splendor.  It  was  as  if  the  treasure  of  the  Niebe- 
luugen  were  shining  up  to  me  from  its  secret  caves. 
"  It  shall  be  forever  hidden  !  "  were  the  last  words 
of  Hagen,  as  he  fell  beneath  the  sword  Bnlmung ; 
but  I  can  almost  fancy  it  was  a  gleam  from  the  red 


THE    NIBELUNGEN  LIED.  81 

gold,  and  the  flash  of  the  mysterious  jewels,  that 
was  revealed  to  my  gaze  that  night.  The  light  of 
sunset  faded,  and  lo  !  in  the  East,  through  the  hori- 
zon mists,  weaponed  with  splendor,  vindicated  her 
dominion  in  the  gathering  night,  the  solemn  moon. 
There,  glorious  in  silver  light,  whispering  among  the 
reeds  of  its  margin,  lapping  lightly  the  barks  upon 
its  breast,  the  river  passed  grandly  on  into  mys- 
tery, —  even  as  on  the  night  when  it  swept  beneath 
the  corpse  of  murdered  Siegfried,  borne  across  to 
his  waiting  wife,  the  oars  dipping  slow,  repentance 
on  the  faces  of  the  retinue,  the  spear  of  Hagen  yet 
fixed  in  the  heart  it  had  sundered  ! 


CHAPTER    IV. 

GUDRUN. 

It  has  been  judged  fit  to  give  to  the  epic  of  Gud- 
run  —  written  about  the  year  1250 — the  name  of 
the  German  Odyssey,  as  the  Nibelungen  Lied  has 
been  called  the  German  Iliad.  The  name  is  a  con- 
venient one.  Of  the  two  poems,  the  Nibelungen 
Lied  is  the  most  warlike  and  tragic,  and,  in  general, 
possesses  superior  interest.  Gudrun  is  somewhat 
softer  in  character,  though  by  no  means  wanting  in 
pictures  of  strife ;  the  most  prominent  figures  are 
those  of  women ;  domestic  life  is  portrayed  ;  there 
is  much  restless  wandering  to  and  fro,  often  recalling 
the  adventures  of  the  prince  of  Ithaca.  As  in  the 
case  of  the  Nibelungen  Lied,  the  name  of  the 
writer  of  Gudrun  has  not  come  down  to  us.  This 
much  can  be  said  with  certainty :  that  he  had  for 
the  basis  of  his  work,  as  did  the  writer  of  the  com- 
panion-piece, old  legends  and  lays.  The  influence 
of  some  of  the  poets  of  his  time  can  be  traced  in 
his  verses,  but,  before  all,  the  Nibelungen  Lied  was 
his  model,  —  which  is  believed  to  have  been  written 
about  fifty  years  before.  There  are  several  allu- 
sions in  the  poem  which  make  it  certain  that  the 
minstrel  was  a  wandering  singer  of  the  people  ; 
from  the  language,  scholars  believe  him  to  have 


GUDRUN.  83 

come  from  Southern  Germany ;  the  manuscript 
which  has  come  down  to  us  was  discovered  some 
fifty  years  since,  in  Tyrol.  The  poem,  however,  has 
to  do  entirely  with  the  North,  and  with  the  races  to 
which  our  forefathers  belonged, — a  fact  that  should 
make  it  of  especial  interest  to  us.  Struggling 
through  refinements  borrowed  from  the  court  poets, 
and  ideas  and  embellishments  gained  from  Chris- 
tianity and  the  notions  of  chivalry,  we  may  see  the 
traits,  still  vivid,  of  the  life  and  soul  of  our  heathen 
ancestors.  The  horizon  which  stretches  about  us  is 
one  of  the  sea,  with  its  storms,  ships,  sea-kings, 
and  their  voyages.  The  coasts  and  islands  of  the 
German  ocean  form  the  scene,  and  before  our  eyes 
is  disclosed  the  bold  activity  of  the  sailor  races, — 
which,  driven  by  an  eternal  disquiet,  ventured  out 
amid  storms,  in  their  weak  barks,  to  gather  in  other 
lands  such  booty  as  they  prized.  In  the  midst  of 
barbaric  harshness  will  be  found  things  beautiful 
and  admirable. 

There  sat  at  Hegelingeu  a  powerful  king,  Hettel,1 
who  ruled  over  Friesland,  and  who,  upon  the  advice 
of  his  friends,  determined  to  woo  the  beautiful  Hilda, 
daughter  of  Hagen,  the  fierce  king  of  Irland.  ,  The 
heroes  Wate,  Frut,  and  Horant  undertake  the  mes- 
sage, upon  well -prepared  ships,  going,  with  many 
knights  and  men,  to  Irland,  where  they  give  them- 
selves out  for  merchants,  driven  away  by  Hettel  of 
Hegelingen.  They  send  to  King  Hagen  rich  pres- 
ents, in  return  for  which  he  promises  them  peace 


1  Adapted  from  Vilmar. 


84  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

and  guidance,  presenting  them  at  last  to  the  women, 
who  talk  with  them  kindly.  The  queen  and  her 
daughter,  Hilda,  ask  the  old  warrior  AVate  what  he 
prefers,  —  to  sit  by  beautiful  women  or  fight  in  the 
battle  with  men.  Then  spoke  the  old  Wate  :  « '  This 
thing  seems  better  to  me.  By  beautiful  women  I 
never  yet  sat  very  softly.  One  thing  I  could  do 
easier, — fight  with  good  warriors,  when  the  time 
should  come,  in  the  fierce  charge."  At  that  the 
lovely  maid  laughs,  and  they  jest  about  it  long  in 
the  hall.  Then  come  battle-plays,  in  which  AVate 
says  he  cannot  fight,  and  asks  King  Hagen  to  teach 
him  the  use  of  arms.  But  when  the  old  man  gives 
the  king  skilful  buffets,  the  king  cries,  "  Never  saw 
I  pupil  learn  so  quickly."  One  evening  Horant, 
vassal  of  Hettel,  begins  to  sing  so  sweetly  that  all 
are  surprised,  and  Hilda  sends  messengers  asking 
him  to  delight  them  with  his  song  every  evening, 
which  the  hero  willingly  promises.  The  next  day 
at  dawn  Horant  begins  to  sing,  so  that  all  the  birds 
in  the  hedges  round  about  are  silent  before  his  sweet 
lay.  The  sleeping  sleep  not  long.  King  Hagen 
himself  hears  it,  sitting  by  his  queen,  and  from  the 
chamber  they  go  forth  upon  the  roof.  Hilda,  too, 
and  her  maids  sit  and  listen.  Yea,  even  the  birds 
in  the  court  of  the  king  forget  their  notes  ;  well 
hear  the  heroes  also.  His  voice  sounds  with  such 
power  that  the  sick,  as  also  the  well,  lose  their 
sense.  The  beasts  in  the  forest  stop  their  feeding  ; 
the  worms  in  the  wood,  the  fishes  in  the  waves,  —  all 
stop  their  movements.  Forgotten  within  the  church 
is  the  chant  of  the  priests  ;  also  the  bells  sound  less 


GUDRUN.  85 

sweetly  than  before.  What  he  sang  then  seemed 
long  to  no  one ;  to  all  who  heard  him  was  sorrow 
after  Horant. 

Then  the  fair  Hilda  has  him  come  secretly  to  her, 
that  he  may  sing  yet  more.  She  offers  him  the  gold 
ring  she  wears  on  her  finger,  but  he  will  accept  from 
her  only  a  girdle,  to  carry  as  a  present  to  his  mas- 
ter ;  and  now,  while  she  is  moved,  he  discloses  to 
her  how  King  Hettel  has  sent  them  to  woo  her  for 
him.  Willingly  is  Hilda  induced  to  fly  secretly  with 
them,  and  preparations  are  made.  Hagen  sees  the 
preparations,  and  asks  why  the  strangers  desire  to 
leave.  Wate  replies  that  Hettel  has  sent  for  them 
that  he  may  be  reconciled,  and  they  are  pressed  to 
see  again  their  dear  ones  whom  they  have  left  be- 
hind at  home.  But,  before  they  go,  will  the  king 
allow  the  women  to  behold  the  great  treasures  which 
they  have  kept  stored  up  in  the  ships  ?  This  Hagen 
grants.  The  next  morning  the  king  rides,  with  many 
warriors  and  the  women,  to  the  beach ;  the  women 
ascend  the  ships,  the  queen  is  separated  from  the 
princess,  the  sails  are  hoisted,  and  the  guests  move 
off"  with  the  maid.  So  they  return  with  good  for- 
tune to  Hettel,  who  welcomes  the  fair  Hilda,  esteem- 
ing himself  happy  to  have  won  the  maid.  But 
already,  on  the  following  evening,  appear  the  pur- 
suing ships  of  Hagen.  In  the  battle  that  follows, 
however,  he  is  wounded  and  defeated.  The  grisly 
Wate,  at  Hilda's  entreaty,  heals  the  hurts  he  has 
himself  caused  ;  easily  now  does  peace  come  to  pass, 
and  Hettel 's  marriage  with  Hilda  is  celebrated  with 
pomp. 


86  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

Hettel  and  Hilda,  living  together  in  the  fullest 
happiness,  have  two  children  born  to  them,  —  a  son, 
Ortwin,  who  is  given  to  the  veteran  Wate  to  be 
educated,  and  a  daughter,  Gudrun,  who  soon  grows 
to  such  exceeding  beauty  that  her  fame  spreads 
through  all  lands,  and  many  mighty  princes  woo  her 
without  success.  She  is  refused  to  King  Siegfried  of 
Mohrenland,  who  therefore  threatens  Hettel' s  lands 
with  plunder  and  fire.  She  is  refused  to  King  Hart- 
muth  of  Normandy ;  just  so  woos  in  vain  King  Her- 
wig  of  Seeland.  But  Herwig  appears  with  three 
thousand  men  before  Hettel' s  castle,  while  all  are 
sleeping.  A  battle  follows,  and  then  a  truce.  Her- 
wig pleases  all  by  his  manly  bearing  and  beauty,  and 
Gudrun,  when  asked  by  her  father  whether  she  will 
take  the  noble  hero  for  her  husband,  replies  :  "  She 
desires  no  better  lover."  So  they  are  betrothed, 
but  the  mother  requires  that  the  daughter  shall 
remain  a  year  longer  with  her. 

Hettel  and  Herwig  must  straightway  fare  forth  in 
their  ships  together  to  fight  other  enemies,  and 
Hartmuth,  the  Norman,  learning  that  the  land  is 
bare  of  defenders,  determines  to  arm  quickly  and 
carry  away  the  maid.  His  father,  Ludwig,  joins 
him.  Presently  they  are  at  hand,  and  Hartmuth 
renews  his  suit  to  Gudrun,  threatening  her  with  his 
hatred  if  she  will  not  follow.  The  steadfast  maid 
replies  that  she  is  the  betrothed  of  Herwig,  and  de- 
sires no  other  lover  as  long  as  she  lives.  Hartmuth 
and  Ludwig  hereupon  fiercely  storm  the  castle,  and 
Gudrun,  with  her  serving-women,  is  taken  captive. 
The  mother  remains  behind,  loudly  lamenting.  At 


GUDRUN.  87 

her  summons  Hettel  and  Herwig  return  in  haste, 
only  to  find  the  land  desolate  and  Gudrun  gone. 
But  hope  presently  revives.  Unexpectedly  a  fleet 
of  pilgrims  appears  in  sight,  bound  for  the  Holy 
Laud,  their  sails  marked  with  the  sign  of  the  cross. 
They  are  men  of  peace,  and  cannot  resist  when 
Hettel  and  Herwig,  with  their  warriors,  take  pos- 
session of  the  crafts,  with  all  their  stores.  There 
are  seventy  of  them ;  these  are  filled  at  once  with 
fighting  men,  and  depart  to  recover  the  captive. 
Meantime  the  robbers,  feeling  secure,  pause  in  their 
voyage  upon  an  island, — the  Wulpensand, — resting 
from  their  victory.  Soon,  in  the  distance,  appear 
the  crowding  sails,  all  marked  with  the  sign  of  the 
cross.  "A  fleet  of  pilgrims,"  they  say  ;  "  we  may 
let  our  swords  lie  in  their  sheaths."  But  when  the 
ships  come  nearer,  they  behold  the  helmets  of 
soldiers,  and  no  longer  doubt  that  Hettel  and  Her- 
wig approach.  They  are  attacked  before  they  have 
time  fairly  to  seize  their  arms.  Wate  springs  first 
upon  the  shore,  and  Herwig,  filled  with  battle- 
fury,  leaps  into  the  waves  and  stands  up  to  his 
shoulders  in  the  tide.  Many  a  spear  the  enemy 
shoot  at  him,  but  he  forces  his  way  to  the  beach, 
where  the  battle  grows  fiercer.  Disaster,  however, 
is  destined  to  fall  upon  the  friends  of  Gudrun.  The 
sea  is  sounding  and  the  night  falling,  when  her 
father,  Hettel,  meets  Ludwig,  the  father  of  Hart- 
muth  ;  they  fight,  and  Hettel  is  slain.  When  the 
grim  Wate  learns  of  Hettel' s  death  he  begins  to 
rage  like  a  wild  boar,  and  the  warriors  see  fire  flash 
from  the  helmets  he  strikes,  like  the  redness  of  the 


88  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

sunset ;  his  followers  do  the  like,  but  in  the  dark- 
ness friend  cannot  be  told  from  foe,  and  they  are 
forced  to  recede.  The  Normans,  in  the  gloom, 
abandon  the  droary  island,  and  when  at  day-break 
Wate  springs  up  to  renew  the  fight,  the  camp  is 
vacant,  and  no  sail  is  to  be  seen  upon  the  sea.  The 
Normans  are  gone  ;  Wate  and  Herwig  are  too  weak 
to  follow.  They  gloomily  bury  the  dead,  lift  the 
wounded  into  the  ships,  and  determine  to  found  a 
cloister  upon  the  Wulpensand,  where  prayers  may 
be  offered  for  the  souls  of  the  slain. 

Mournfully  sail  the  heroes  home.  Ortwin,  the 
brother  of  Gudrun,  who  had  gone  in  the  pilgrims' 
ships  for  his  sister's  rescue,  does  not  appear  before 
his  mother  to  tell  her  of  his  father's  death.  Wate 
bears  the  gloomy  news,  and  when  the  queen  mourns 
aloud  for  her  slain  husband  and  the  destroyed 
manhood  of  the  land,  the  ancient  champion  cries, 
"Woman,  cease  lamenting.  They  will  not  return  ; 
but  when,  after  many  days,  the  boys  of  the  land  have 
grown  to  be  men,  we  will  avenge  upon  the  Normans 
our  pain  and  shame . ' '  Wate  feels  that  the  disaster  is 
a  judgment  upon  them  for  their  impiety  in  seizing 
the  ships  of  the  pilgrims.  They  are  straightway 
returned  to  their  owners,  that  the  battle  to  come 
may  not  fail.  It  is  resolved  that  the  queen  shall 
cause  good  ships  to  be  built  while  the  children  grow 
to  be  men.  But  when  the  warriors  are  gone,  the 
queen  sends  food  to  the  priests  on  the  island,  that 
they  may  remember  her  in  prayers  before  God.  To 
that  end  she  causes  a  minster  to  be  built  that  is 
vast,  and  thereto  a  cloister  and  a  hospital,  so  that  it 


GUDRUN.  89 

is  known  in  many  lands.     It  is  called  the  cloister  of 
the  Wulpensand. 

Meanwhile  the  Normans  have  reached  their  coun- 
try. When  Ludwig,  the  father,  beholds  his  castles, 
he  shows  them  to  the  sad  captive,  Gudrun.  "If 
thou  wilt  wed  Hartmuth,"  he  says,  "thou  shalt  rule 
over  a  rich  land."  But  when  Gudrun  declares, 
"I  would  rather  die  than  take  him  as  a  lover," 
Ludwig  grows  angry,  catches  the  maid  by  the  hair, 
and  throws  her  into  the  sea.  Hartmuth  draws  her 
quickly  forth  again,  and  brings  her  once  more  into 
the  ship,  where  she,  with  her  women,  weeps  over 
the  unworthy  treatment,  —  concerning  which  Hart- 
muth reproaches  his  father  bitterly.  Now  comes 
the  old  Norman  queen,  Gerlint,  with  her  daughter, 
Ortrun,  to  receive  the  heroes  ;  but  when  she  will 
kiss  Gudrun,  the  maid  starts  back  in  anger,  for  she 
thinks  Gerlint  has  had  the  greatest  share  in  her  un- 
happiness  ;  she  it  was  who  urged  her  son  to  carry 
Gudrun  off.  But  toward  Ortrun,  Hartmuth' s  sis- 
ter, is  Gudrun  kind,  for  she  is  well  disposed,  and 
seeks  to  relieve  her  sufferings.  Gerlint  urges  a 
speedy  marriage ;  since,  however,  Gudrun  persists 
in  her  refusal,  the  queen  grows  angry,  forcing  her 
to  undertake  the  lowest  services,  and  separating 
her  from  her  women.  So  is  the  unhappy  one  tor- 
mented three  years  and  a-half,  for  which  Hartmuth, 
returning  from  forays,  chides  his  mother  in  anger. 
But  nothing  can  induce  the  princess  to  receive 
Hartmuth' s  suit,  till  at  last  she  is  forced  by  the  evil 
Gerlint  to  wash  clothes  at  the  shore.  When  one  of 
the  serving-women,  Hildburg,  shows  compassion 


90  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

for  her  unhappy  mistress,  she  is  compelled  to  help 
in  the  labor ;  but  thereat  both  rejoice,  for  in  this 
way  they  are  again  united. 

Thirteen  years  pass,  and  Queen  Hilda  has  in  no 
way  forgotten  her  daughter.  She  causes  many  good 
ships  to  be  built.  These  being  ready,  and  the  boys 
of  the  land  having  grown  to  be  men,  she  summons 
her  friends  for  an  expedition  against  the  Normans. 
When  all  is  ready  the  fleet  sails  away,  but  soon 
driven  back  by  a  contrary  wind,  it  falls  into  great 
need.  The  ships  are  carried  near  a  loadstone 
mountain ;  though  the  anchors  are  good,  the  ships 
are  almost  engulfed  in  the  gloomy  sea,  and  stand 
with  their  masts  all  bent.  But  a  wind  carries  them 
once  more  into  the  flowing  ocean,  and  at  last  they 
reach  the  Norman  coast.  The  soldiers  rest,  while 
Gudrun's  brother  and  lover,  Ortwin  and  Hervvig, 
go  into  the  country  to  get  intelligence. 

Now  Gudrun,  at  the  shore  with  Hildburg,  busy 
at  her  menial  work,  sees  a  sea-bird  come  swimming 
toward  her ;  a  messenger  of  God  it  is,  which  an- 
nounces that  Hilda  yet  lives,  and  has  sent  a  great 
army  to  save  them;  that  Ortwin  and  Herwig  are 
already  in  the  neighborhood  with  the  ships,  and  that 
messengers  will  soon  appear.  The  maids  think  no 
longer  of  their  labor,  but  talk  of  the  heroes  who 
are  to  come  to  .free  them,  until  the  day  approaches 
its  end.  At  night  they  receive  harsh  words  from 
Gerlint  for  accomplishing  so  little,  and  are  com- 
manded to  go  to  work  the  next  day  before  dawn, 
since  Palm  Sunday  is  near,  and  guests  are  ex- 
pected. When  the  maids  arise  from  the  hard 


GUDRUN.  91 

benches  where  they  sleep,  the  earth  is  covered  with 
snow,  but  they  must  go  barefoot  to  the  beach. 
While  they  wash  the  clothes  they  send  many  a 
longing  look  over  the  dark  sea,  and  at  last  behold 
a  bark  with  two  men.  As  the  strangers  land,  an 
impulse  to  flee  seizes  the  maids,  but  they  soon  re- 
turn. "They  were  both  wet,"  says  the  song. 
"  They  were  in  poor  clothing,  and,  besides,  the 
March  wind  blew  cold.  It  was  in  the  time  when 
the  winter  went  toward  its  end,  and  the  sea  every- 
where floated  with  ice.  Their  pain  was  great,  for 
through  their  thin  garments  appeared  their  lovely 
bodies.  That  the  messengers  did  not  know  them 
caused  them  sorrow."  The  heroes  question  them, 
and  at  length  Herwig  says  to  his  companion, 
"  Truly,  Ortwin,  if  your  sister  Gudrun  is  alive, 
this  must  be  she,  for  never  yet  saw  I  woman  so 
like  her."  "  She  of  whom  you  speak,"  says  Gud- 
run, untruthfully,  "  has  died  through  great  suffer- 
ing." But  the  recognition  is  not  long  postponed,  — 
the  lovers  show  their  betrothal  rings,  and  fall  into 
one  another's  arms. 

One  naturally  supposes  that  Gudrun  will  be 
taken  without  delay  to  her  friends,  but  the  soldierly 
punctiliousness  of  her  brother  Ortwin  stands  in  the 
way.  "  I  do  not  think  it  should  be  so,"  he  says  ; 
"  If  I  had  a  hundred  sisters,  I  would  let  them  die 
before  I  would  act  in  a  cowardly  way  in  a  strange 
land,  stealing  secretly  from  my  enemy  what  was 
taken  from  me  by  force."  Gudrun  must  again  be 
the  prize  of  battle.  The  heroes  depart,  promising 
to  return  with  the  host,  and  Gudrun,  overjoyed, 


92  GERMAN   LITERATURE. 

spurns  her  labor,  throwing  the  costly  apparel  into 
the  sea.  When  chided  at  night  by  Gerlint,  she 
answers  proud  and  defiant,  till  the  queen,  growing 
angry,  causes  her  to  be  bound,  that  she  may  be 
beaten  with  rods.  Now  Gudrun  shows  her  cun- 
ning. She  promises  to  listen  at  last  to  Hartmuth's 
suit,  at  which  mother  and  son  become  overjoyed, 
treating  her  with  all  honor,  and  restoring  to  her 
the  serving-women  from  whom  she  has  been  sepa- 
rated. To  remove  from  the  castle  as  many  soldiers 
as  possible,  Gudrun  begs  that  Hartmuth's  vassals 
may  be  summoned  to  the  wedding,  whereupon  the 
men  are  sent  away  in  troops  to  carry  the  message. 
"Then  they  slept  joyful-hearted ;  they  knew  that 
many  a  good  knight  would  come  to  them  who  would 
help  them  out  of  their  great  need." 

Meanwhile  Her  wig  and  Ortwin,  returning  to  their 
friends,  tell  them  of  the  interview  with  Gudrun  ; 
and  as  her  kindred  begin  to  weep  at  the  unworthy 
treatment  which  the  king's  daughter  has  suffered, 
the  grisly  Wate  cries  out  angrily,  "You  behave 
like  old  women  ;  you  know  not  why.  It  is  not  be- 
coming heroes  good,  rich  in  praise.  If  you  wish  to 
help  Gudrun,  make  red  the  clothing  which  her  white 
hands  have  washed.  In  that  way  can  you  serve 
her."  Then  the  host  comes  forth  from  its  hiding- 
place,  and  before  dawn  stands  before  the  Norman 
walls,  when  Hartmuth,  suddenly  summoned  by  the 
watchman,  exclaims,  "  I  recognize  the  standards  of 
princes  from  twenty  lands.  They  come  to  avenge 
upon  us  their  old  shame."  At  his  command  the 
gates  are  opened,  and  the  two  kings,  Ludwig  and 


GUDRUN.  93 

Hartmuth,  father  and  son,  proceed  forth  at  the  head 
of  their  warriors.  Herwig  encounters  Ludwig,  and 
with  a  mighty  stroke  severs  his  head  from  his  trunk  ; 
whereat  Queen  Gerlint,  on  the  battlements  above, 
bewails  his  fate.  A  faithless  guard  falls  with  naked 
sword  upon  Gudrun  to  slay  her,  as  the  cause  of 
their  misfortune,  but  Hartmuth  hears  her  cries. 
From  the  field  he  shouts  to  the  murderer  on  the 
wall,  and  the  knave  springs  back,  for  he  fears  the 
wrath  of  the  king.  Meanwhile  Wate  rages  with 
fury,  and  even  Hartmuth  almost  loses  his  life.  At 
Gudrun' s  feet  falls  his  sister,  Ortrun  :  "  Have  pity, 
noble  prince's  child,  upon  so  many  of  our  people 
who  lie  here  smitten  !  Behold,  O  maid,  my  father 
and  my  kindred  all  are  dead,  or  near  to  death,  and 
now  does  the  bold  Hartmuth  stand  in  great  danger. 
Let  this  speak  for  me  ;  when  no  one  pitied  thee,  of 
all  who  are  here,  I  alone  was  thy  friend.  Whatever 
harm  was  done  to  thee,  that  always  I  sorrowed  for." 
Then  Gudrun  pities  her  faithful  friend,  and  cries 
from  the  wall  until  Hartmuth' s  life  is  spared,  and 
he  is  made  prisoner ;  but  the  castle  is  taken  and 
plundered,  Wate  raging  grimly,  with  gnashing 
teeth,  piercing  eyes,  and  beard  an  ell  broad.  With 
fearful  voice  he  asks  for  Gerlint.  Gudrun  gener- 
ously seeks  to  save  her  foe,  but  the  queen  is  drawn 
forth.  "  Now  say,  Queen  Gerlint,"  says  the  hero 
scornfully,  "  do  you  longer  afflict  the  fair  wash- 
women?"  With  that  he  smites  her  with  the  sword. 
Henceforth  all  is  glee.  The  ships  depart,  full  of 
the  rejoicing  victors  and  reclaimed  captives,  whom 
the  aged  Queen  Hilda,  forewarned  by  heralds, 


94  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

meets  at  Hegelingen,  upon  the  shore.  "  Who  could 
buy  with  gold  the  bliss  when  the  child  and  the 
mother  kiss  one  another?"  Grisly,  broad-bearded 
Wate  is  also  kissed,  and  the  remaining  heroes. 
Great  preparations  are  made  for  the  marriage  of 
Gudrun  and  Herwig.  Ortwin,  moreover,  woos  the 
noble  Ortrun,  and  Hartmuth,  liberated  and  forgiven, 
the  faithful  Hildburg,  who  stood  with  Gudrun  in 
the  ice  upon  the  beach  when  the  deliverers  arrived." 
"  When  the  rich  kings  came  together,"  so  ends  the 
song,  "  the  heroes  strove  which  of  the  women  was 
most  beautiful.  The  marriage  was  celebrated  with 
the  greatest  splendor.  The  kings  returned  home, 
swearing  to  one  another  firm  fidelity ;  and  they 
vowed  to  one  another  that  they  would  always  honor- 
ably bear  their  princely  dignity,  in  a  manner  worthy 
of  their  lofty  fathers." 

Gudrun  has  sometimes  been  preferred  to  the 
Nibelungen  Lied,  but  not  wisely  ;  it  is,  however,  far 
superior  in  interest  to  the  court  romances  of  the 
same  period.  Without  doubt  it  has  for  its  basis  old 
legends  and  popular  songs,  with  which  have  become 
intertwined  materials  from  a  later  age.  Although 
the  wild  spirit  of  the  bold  sea-rovers  is  drawn  in 
many  places  with  the  liveliest  truth,  something 
milder  is  blended  with  it.  Even  the  grim  Wate,  in 
whom,  before  all,  the  character  of  Northern  heroism 
is  stamped,  who  prefers  "to  hear  the  noise  of  battle 
to  sitting  by  beautiful  women,"  atones  in  part  for 
his  savage  fierceness  by  his  devotion  to  his  king. 
In  the  character  of  Gudrun  there  is  much  beauty, 
though  she  is  not  faultless.  She  guards  the  fidelity 


GUDRUN.  9-» 

she  has  sworn  to  her  lover  unconquerably,  submit- 
ting to  the  lowest  humiliations  ;  and  although  the 
recollection  of  the  hardships  she  has  suffered  fills  her 
heart,  she  is  not  revengeful,  but  interposes,  vainly 
indeed,  to  save  Gerlint,  her  tormentor,  from  the 
sword  of  Wate.  But  she  does  not  scruple  to  be  un- 
truthful in  telling  Ortwin  and  Herwig,  upon  the  sea- 
shore, before  they  recognize  her,  that  she  is  dead  ; 
and  though  we  may  think  stratagem  not  unjustifiable 
toward  her  Norman  captors,  she  undertakes  rather 
too  joyfully  the  deceptions  which  lead  to  the  cap- 
ture of  the  citadel. 

To  us,  I  think,  Gudrun,  like  the  Nibelungen 
Lied,  will  be  principally  interesting  as  a  portrayal  of 
our  forefathers.  In  Gudrun  the  picture  is  far  less 
plain  than  in  the  companion  epic,  since  it  is  much 
more  overlaid  by  accretions  from  the  after  ages.  A 
fine,  picturesque  heathenism,  however,  does  look 
through  ;  and  often  in  the  verse  we  seem  to  hear  the 
roar  of  the  broad,  tempestuous  seas,  in  battle  with 
which  the  children  of  the  ancient  race  still  take 
pleasure.  "Both  poems,"  says  a  high  authority, 
"  are  to  the  nation  an  everlasting  glory.  They 
reach  across,  as  it  were,  into  those  old  times,  with 
their  deeds,  customs,  and  ideas,  out  of  which  the 
voices  of  discontented  Roman  enemies  extolled  the 
bravery,  the  trustiness,  the  chastity  of  our  venerable 
ancestors.  When  we  behold  these  poems,  full  of 
healthy  strength,  of  sturdy  although  rude  ideas,  of 
noble  morals,  we  hear  quite  other  testimonies  speak 
for  the  ancestral  excellences  of  our  stock  than  the 
dry  declarations  of  the  chroniclers ;  and,  in  germ, 


96  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

we  shall  already,  among  our  fathers,  find  the  honor, 
the  considerateness,  and  all  the  creditable  qualities 
which  distinguish  us  to-day  in  the  circle  of  Euro- 
pean nations."  l 

"  To  characterize  in  the  shortest  way,"  says  an- 
other critic,  "  the  Nibelungen  Lied,  let  me  recall  a 
scene  from  the  Alpine  world.  Bursting  forth  from 
the  blue  glacier  grottos  of  the  Finster  Aarhorn,  the 
river  Aar  flows,  at  first  quietly  and  gently,  past  the 
Grimsel,  upon  a  broad  expanse  which  it  murmur- 
ingly  traverses.  But  the  colossal  mountains  to  the 
right  and  left  press  constantly  closer  upon  it. 
Masses  of  granite  tower  before  the  current;  its 
course  becomes  always  more  tortuous  ;  ever  wilder 
grows  the  roar  in  the  narrow  channel ;  ever  quicker 
hurry  on  the  foaming  waves  ;  ever  gloomier  threaten 
the  countless  crags  and  precipices  ;  until  at  length, 
in  mad  career  and  with  fearful  thunder-crash,  the 
stream  plunges  headlong  into  the  gloomy  gulf  of 
Handeck."2  The  student  of  the  Nibelungen  Lied, 
who  at  the  same  time  knows  the  Alps,  will  recog- 
nize the  excellence  of  the  scholar's  parallel ;  and  if 
I  were  to  search  for  an  apt  symbol  of  the  Gudrun, 
it  might  be  found  in  others  of  those  mountain 
streams,  which,  after  the  torture  of  cataracts  and 
the  smothering  of  sunless  abysses,  flow  forth  at 
length  among  the  trees  and  grass  of  laughing  low- 
land plains,  —  at  first  tumult  and  despair,  then  the 
fairest  peace. 


1  Gervinus :   Geschichte  der  deutschen  Dichtung. 
»  Job.  Scherr. 


GUDRUN.  97 

When  the  voyager  approaches  the  shore  of  the 
Old  World,  and  sees  at  length  the  iron-bound  Irish 
coast,  ledges  of  granite,  seamed  and  battered  so 
long  by  the  sledges  of  the  surf,  the  scream  of  the 
sea-bird  meanwhile  answering  the  wild  wind,  he  will 
behold  the  little  vessels  of  the  fishermen,  the  hulls 
scarcely  visible,  the  brown  sails  bellying  to  the 
breeze,  while  the  mast  leans  far  to  the  leeward. 
In  guise  very  similar  did  the  three  heroes  of  Fries- 
land, — Wate,  Frut,  and  Horant,  —  carry  off  over 
these  seas  the  fair  Hilda,  their  little  barks  of  osiers 
covered  with  hide  and  bound  with  thongs,  the  sails 
always  wet  with  foam  from  the  near-at-hand  waves. 
So  must  have  looked  our  pirate  progenitors,  of 
whom  these  figures  are  representative.  Out  from 
the  German  ocean  the  blast  blew  strong  against 
us,  bleak  and  full  of  snow,  —  it  was  the  end  of  win- 
ter,—  as  we  pressed  on  past  Normandy,  the  old  realm 
ot  Hartmuth,  into  the  wider  sea.  It  was  a  sea  full 
of  gales  and  mist,  —  a  tossing,  whitening  surface, 
beneath  a  sky  overcast.  Of  the  distant  shore  the 
sunken  coast-line  barely  remained  visible,  now  and 
then  a  low  island,  desolate,  with  its  white  sand, — 
perhaps  the  Wulpensand.  At  night  the  storm  grew 
wilder,  —  a  murky  darkness,  which  a  solitary  bea- 
con far  down  amid  the  waters  did  not  relieve.  At 
noon  we  anchored  off  a  wintry  shore,  a  slow,  gray 
river  pouring  out  ice-masses,  the  beach  heaped  high 
with  snow.  Among  these  scenes  the  barefooted 
Gudrun  came  to  wash  the  clothes,  while  she  watched 
for  the  messengers  whom  the  sea-bird  had  promised. 
Spots  they  are  bleak  and  dangerous  to-day ;  nurs- 


98  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

ing  in  that  old  time  the  hardihood  that  gave  the 
sailor-races  their  dominion  in  the  world ;  not 
wilder  the  roar  of  the  blasts  than  their  own  battle- 
cries,  not  more  relentless  the  dash  of  their  tides 
than  the  stroke  of  their  axes,  not  darker  the  heavens 
than  the  movements  of  their  spirits  ;  yet  with  traits 
in  them  too  of  manful  virtue. 

Before  we  leave  the  consideration  of  the  poetry 
which  the  people  loved,  a  class  of  legends  must  be 
noticed,  —  like  those  of  the  Nibelungen  Lied  and 
Gudrun,  for  a  long  period  transmitted  orally,  and 
at  the  same  time  with  them  committed,  at  length, 
to  writing.  Allusion  is  made  to  the  Animal  Leg- 
ends,1 a  class  peculiarly  racy  with  the  life  of  the 
Teutons,  which  have  kept  pace  and  place  with  the 
stock  throughout  its  whole  progress,  and  are  yet  in 
fresh  remembrance.  The  roots  of  these  legends  lie 
in  the  wild  simplicity  of  the  oldest  races.  Such 
a  people  fastens  passionately  upon  the  phenom- 
ena of  nature,  rejoicing  with  spring  and  sum- 
mer, lamenting  with  autumn,  bowed  down  in  the 
heavy  imprisonment  of  winter.  With  ready  an- 
thropomorphism it  lends  to  these  changes  its  own 
human  feelings,  developing  with  the  personification 
colossal  myths,  sometimes  pleasant,  sometimes  fear- 
ful. Still  more  intimately  does  such  a  race  connect 
itself  with  the  more  closely  related  animal  world. 
One  of  Hawthorne's  most  charming  characters  is 
the  weird  creature,  Donatello,  the  faun ;  and  no 
picture  in  which  he  appears  is  quite  so  attractive  as 


Thiersagen. 


GUDRUN.  99 

that  one  of  the  solitary  Koman  garden,  in  which 
Donatello  disports  himself,  communing  in  strange 
sympathy  with  the  brute  world.  He  whistles  to  the 
birds  in  their  own  notes,  who  flock  to  him  fear- 
lessly ;  with  beasts  he  enters  into  similar  relations 
of  mutual  confidence.  He  is  himself  harmlessly 
happy,  and  makes  happy  the  wild  creatures,  who, 
feeling  his  likeness  to  themselves,  take  part  in  his 
gambols  and  respond  to  his  advances.  We  may 
hold  that  man  has  a  nobler  origin  than  development 
from  some  brutish  type  ;  yet,  as  we  trace  him  back- 
ward into  his  primeval  state,  he  becomes  more  and 
more  faun-like,  until  there  comes  to  pass  something 
of  that  community  of  feeling  between  him  and  the 
brute  world  that  Hawthorne  pictures.  The  animal 
legend  can  arise  only  among  a  primeval  people,  who 
are  still  hunters  or  herdsmen.  These  see  in  the 
ravenous  wolf  a  powerful  companion,  strong  and 
skilful  almost  as  themselves  ;  in  the  grim  bear,  a^ 
hero  ruling  wood  and  heath.  As  they  wander 
through  the  dim  depths  and  sunny  glades  of  the 
undisturbed  forest,  wolf  and  bear,  and  the  red- 
bearded  fox  lurking  at  the  wood's  edge,  are 
hunters  like  themselves,  companions,  and  receive, 
besides  their  own  brute  names,  familiar  titles, — 
Isengrim,  Brun,  Reinhart.  Shepherd  and  hunter 
felt  that  it  was  good  to  be  on  friendly  terms,  in 
those  solitudes,  with  these  forest  comrades.  Not 
alone  were  their  teeth  and  claws  formidable.  In 
the  lithe  form  the  primitive  man  believed  a  demon 
was  lurking ;  in  the  wolf-soul,  shining  forth  from 
the  anger-sparkling  eyes,  there  was  something  un- 


100  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

canny  ;  the  bear  was  the  embodiment  of  something 
dark  and  mysterious,  endowed  with  magic ;  in  a 
certain  way  the  brute  was  exalted  even  above  man, 
and  not  to  be  restrained  by  physical  power  alone.1 
The  animal  legends  that  came  into  being  were  num- 
berless, and  at  length  combined  into  a  rude  epic. 
It  was  full  of  truth,  of  nature,  resting  as  it  did  upon 
the  traditions  of  many  centuries,  knitted  to  life  by 
a  thousand  threads.  One  may  say  the  work  came 
to  pass  by  itself.  Its  earliest  form  who  shall  de- 
scribe? After  long  tradition  it  was  first  written 
down  in  Latin,  in  the  Netherlands.  Sometimes  the 
stories  were  modified,  to  convey  moral  instruction, 
into  fables  ;  again  they  became  vehicles  of  satire. 
The  epic  came  again  into  Germany  in  the  middle  of 
the  thirteenth  century,  the  poet  who  gave  it  a  new 
elaboration  being  Heinrich  of  Glichesare.  Down 
the  ages  it  has  descended  with  popularity  undi- 
minished,  the  great  Gothe  being  the  last  to  lay 
hand  to  the  venerable  material,  in  the  famous  Rey- 
nard the  Fox. 

The  work  of  Heinrich  of  Glichesare  exists  only  in 
fragments.  Two  or  three  specimens  of  the  gro- 
tesque stories  will  suffice,  interesting  as  they  are, 
through  the  rime  of  age  which  rests  upon  them. 
Now  the  wolf  is  thirsty.  The  fox  offers  to  procure 
him  wine,  and  leads  him  and  his  wife  to  a  convent 
cellar,  where,  after  becoming  intoxicated,  they  are 
heartily  beaten  by  the  monks.  Again,  plagued  by 
sharp  hunger,  the  wolf  finds  the  fox,  who  professes 


1  Vilmar. 


GUDRUN.  101 

to  have  become  himself  a  monk,  eating  roasted  eels. 
Isengrim  wishes  also  to  become  a  monk,  for  the  sake 
of  the  good  living.  "A  monk,"  says  Reinhart, 
"must  have  a  tonsure,"  and  in  order  to  produce 
one  he  pours  hot  water  over  Isengrim' s  head,  so 
that  hair  and  skin  are  scalded  off;  but  the  angry 
wolf  is  appeased  when  the  fox  calls  his  attention  to 
the  fish.  When  Isengrim  asks  for  a  share,  "It  is 
all  gone,"  says  the  fox,  "but  I  will  show  you  a 
pond  so  full  of  them  that  nobody  cares  for  them." 
Reinhart  leads  him  then  to  a  frozen  pond,  in  the  ice 
of  which  a  hole  has  been  cut  to  draw  water.  He 
ties  a  bucket  to  the  tail  of  Isengrim,  and  bids  him 
hold  bucket  and  tail  in  the  hole,  while  he  stirs  up 
the  fish.  The  night  is  cold,  and  the  tail  at  length 
firmly  frozen  in  ;  whereupon  the  fox,  with  feigned 
surprise  and  grief,  goes  off,  promising  to  find  help. 
A  knight  appears,  who  sets  his  dog  upon  the  wolf, 
then  cuts  at  him  with  his  sword.  The  tail  is 
severed,  and  the  wolf,  in  that  way  set  free,  flees. 
Reinhart  meanwhile  comes  to  a  well,  provided  with 
two  buckets ;  in  the  well  he  sees  his  own  image. 
Thinking  it  to  be  his  wife,  he  jumps  down  for  love, 
and  sees  then  no  way  of  extricating  himself,  until 
the  wolf  approaches.  Reinhart  calls  out  to  him 
that  he  is  in  Paradise,  which  induces  Isengrim  to 
seat  himself  in  the  empty  bucket ;  this  immediately 
sinks,  and  the  fox  is  drawn  out  by  Isengrim' s  weight. 
As  the  trickster  hurries  off,  monks,  who  come  to 
draw  water,  beat  the  wolf  half  dead.  At  length  the 
lion — the  king — summons  a  general  court.  He  is 
sick ;  an  ant  has  crept  through  his  ear  into  his  brain. 


102  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

He  considers  his  affliction  a  punishment  from  God, 
sent  because  he  has  postponed  so  long  the  condem- 
nation of  Reinhart  for  his  ill  deeds.  Brun,  the 
bear,  is  sent  to  bring  the  culprit  before  the  assembly. 
Arriving  at  the  fox's  quarters,  he  is  diverted  from 
his  purpose  by  the  promise  of  honey,  and  led  to  a 
split  trunk,  where  he  is  told  the  bees  have  stored. 
He  puts  his  head  into  the  crevice ;  Reinhart  draws 
out  a  wedge ;  the  bear  is  caught.  Peasants  ap- 
proach, and  Brun  escapes  with  the  loss  of  his  skin 
and  ears.  With  similar  cunning  Reinhart  manages 
to  reinstate  himself  in  the  favor  of  the  king ;  and 
after  revenge  upon  his  enemies,  devises  roguish  re- 
wards for  his  friends.  To  the  elephant  the  king 
gives  Bohemia,  where,  however,  he  is  lamentably 
beaten.  The  camel  receives  an  abbey,  but  when  he 
takes  possession  the  nuns  rise  against  him  and  drive 
him  into  the  Rhine.  Reinhart  at  length  conquers, 
supplants  his  foes,  and  lives  happily  in  his  strong- 
hold. 

From  this  brief  glance  at  the  Animal  Epic,  as  it 
was  treated  by  Heinrich  of  Glichesare,  the  rude 
humor  that  pervades  it  may  be  caught,  and  an  ap- 
preciation of  the  intimacy  with  the  beast-world 
which  comes  to  pass  in  a  primitive,  faun-like  race. 
In  the  animal  legends  are  to  be  recognized  many  a 
familiar  nursery  tradition.  When  little  Red  Riding 
Hood  falls  into  the  snare  of  her  pretended  grand- 
mother ;  when  the  fox  gets  out  of  the  well  by  en- 
trapping the  wolf;  when  Silver  Hair  has  her  advent- 
ure with  the  three  bears,  —  when  our  children,  at 
the  dawn  of  consciousness,  seize  upon  these,  they 


GUDRUN. 


103 


grasp  immemorial  heirlooms  which  for  ages  have 
fallen  to  Teuton  children,  as  they  come  from  the 
cradle  to  the  knee  of  the  story-telling  mother. 


CHAPTER    V. 

THE   MINNESINGERS. 

The  poetry  which  has  been  considered  in  the  three 
preceding  chapters, — that  based  upon  the  popu- 
lar legends, —  and  which,  though  neglected  by  the 
courts,  was  loved  among  the  folk,  possesses,  as  has 
been  said,  at  the  present  time,  more  interest  than 
any  other  poetry  of  the  age  of  the  Hohenstauffen . 
A  vast  body  of  literature,  however,  has  come  down 
from  the  period,  of  a  different  kind,  much  of  it 
worthy  of  study.  The  term  minne  has  various 
meanings,  the  oldest  and  best  being  that  of  kind 
remembrance  of  a  friend.  In  the  worthiest  of  the 
minnesongs,  to  which  we  now  proceed,  the  word 
is  used  in  this  sense ;  but  it  acquired  at  last  a 
licentious  signification,  to  which  many  of  the  songs 
correspond.  The  Minnesingers  proper  are  those 
who  sing  lyrical  poems  in  honor  of  minne,  or  love. 
The  name  came,  however,  to  have  a  wide  application, 
embracing  many  who  did  not  sing  of  love  at  all.  The 
poets  of  the  Hohenstauflen  period  already  consid- 
ered, who  wrote  the  Nibelungen  Lied,  Gudrun,  and 
the  Animal  Epic,  were,  taking  the  term  in  its  widest 
sense,  Minnesingers,  although  the  designation  is 
more  properly  borne  by  the  more  elegant  poets  of 
the  courts  and  castles.  Nearly  two  hundred  bards 
are  known  to  whom  the  name  can  be  given.  So 


THE   MINNESINGERS.  105 

far  as  they  were  court  poets  they  were  imitators  of 
the  Troubadours,  with  whose  songs  they  became 
acquainted  when,  in  the  time  of  the  crusades,  the 
chivalry  of  France  swept  eastward  through  Ger- 
many toward  the  Holy  Land.  Great  attention  was 
paid  by  the  Minnesingers  to  the  outward  form  of 
their  verses,  it  being  considered  important  that  new 
combinations  of  rhyme  and  rhythm  should  be  con- 
stantly invented.  The  songs  are  as  various  in  char- 
acter as  the  individual  singers.  Nithart  pleases 
himself  with  narrating  for  his  high-born  hearers  his 
adventures  among  the  peasants,  his  tricks  upon 
them,  the  suffering  he  himself  undergoes  in  return, 
as  he  dances  and  laughs  among  the  village  girls  and 
their  lovers.  The  school-master  of  Esslingen  satir- 
izes the  ambition  of  an  unpopular  potentate  :  "  The 
king  can  nobody  resist.  Therefore,  take  care,  O 
God  !  that  he  does  not  creep  into  Thy  power ;  and 
be  watchful,  O  Peter !  that  he  does  not  get  the 
gate  of  Heaven  into  his  hands."  Konrad  of  Wiirz- 
burg  praises  the  Virgin  Mary  in  a  rhapsody  which, 
though  affected  and  overloaded  with  ornament,  is 
not  without  beauty.  "As  the  sun  shines  through 
glass  without  doing  it  injury,  so  was  the  Holy  Vir- 
gin pierced  through  by  God.  She  is  like  a  crystal 
or  a  beryl,  which  remains  cold  while  the  sun  kindles 
a  taper  through  it.  She  is  like  the  dew,  to  which 
in  the  bright  meadow  the  sunny  look  of  God  comes, 
drying  it  away.  As  the  unicorn  cannot  be  hunted, 
but  comes  of  its  own  accord  to  a  pure  maid,  and, 
resting  on  her  lap,  goes  to  sleep,  so  has  Christ 
come  to  her.  Sun  and  moon  receive  their  splendor 


106  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

from  her.  Twelve  stars  are  her  throne,  and  the 
moon  her  foot-stool.  She  is  exalted  like  the  cypress 
in  Zion  and  the  cedar  on  Lebanon  ;  her  virtue  tow- 
ers like  the  palm  in  Cadiz  ;  she  is  a  living  paradise 
of  the  noblest  flowers  ;  her  sweet  fragrance  is  pleas- 
anter  than  balsam  and  musk."  l  Eegenbogen,  once 
a  smith,  one  of  the  later  Minnesingers,  utters 
sturdy  prophecies  which  show  that  the  Eeformation 
was  already  in  the  air.  "  The  kaiser  will  cause 
right  to  be  appreciated,  convert  the  Jews,  and 
scourge  the  arrogance  of  the  priests.  He  will  de- 
stroy the  cloisters,  cause  the  nuns  to  marry,  and 
make  them  useful  in  the  world.  Then  will  come 
good  times."  His  contemporary,  Frauenlob,  who  is 
the  link  between  the  Minnesingers  and  the  Master- 
singers,  by  whom  they  were  succeeded,  sings  poetry 
full  of  the  praise  of  women,  and  of  a  mystical  piety. 
In  thousandfold  repetition  the  Minnesingers  cele- 
brated love.  Sometimes  the  watchman  set  to  warn 
the  lovers  of  coming  danger  utters  his  admonition. 
Sometimes  the  messenger  sings  his  errand.  There 
is  often  mention  of  natural  objects,  of  the  beauty 
of  the  earth  and  skies  in  spring  and  summer,  but  in 
a  stiif,  conventional  way,  which  makes  it  doubtful 
whether  there  was  among  them  much  genuine  ap- 
preciation of  the  earth's  fairness.  To  see  the  lyri- 
cal Minnesingers  at  their  best,  let  us  study  some- 
what carefully  the  noblest  of  the  figures  which  we 
encounter  in  the  great  company, — Walther  von  der 
Vogelweide.  He  was  probably  a  Swiss,  of  a  family 

lKurz. 


THE   MINNESINGERS.  107 

beneath  the  class  of  nobles,  a  contemporary  of  the 
Emperor  Frederick  II.,  in  the  first  part  of  the  thir- 
teenth century.  He  spent  some  years  in  Austria, 
and  being  at  length  neglected  by  the  court,  began  a 
life  of  wandering,  during  which  he  went,  as  he  says, 
from  the  Elbe  to  the  Rhine  and  to  Hungary,  from 
the  Drave  to  the  Po  and  the  Seine.  He  is  said  to 
have  taken  part  in  the  contest  of  the  minstrels  at 
the  Wartburg,  in  which  those  vanquished  were  to  be 
put  to  death,  —  a  festival  much  celebrated  in  song, 
but  whose  historic  truth  is  doubted.  Like  his  con- 
temporaries generally,  he  was  carried  away  by  the 
crusading  spirit,  urging  his  emperor  to  assume  the 
cross,  and  himself  taking  part.  His  character  was 
most  manly,  and  in  many  things  he  was  far  beyond 
his  time.  He  was  especially  bold  in  his  denuncia- 
tions of  extravagant  papal  claims  and  other  abuses 
of  the  Church.  His  influence,  within  and  without 
Germany,  became  so  great  that  the  emperor,  recog- 
nizing his  merits,  gave  him  a  property  and  a  title. 
Tired  of  wandering,  he  had  begged  pathetically  for 
a  home.  "Pity  me,"  he  cries  to  the  emperor, 
* '  that  when  my  art  is  so  rich  I  am  allowed  to  go 
poor.  If  I  could  warm  myself  on  my  own  hearth, 
how  would  I  then  sing  of  the  birds  and  the  flowers 
and  of  love  !  And  if  a  beautiful  wife  offer  me  sweet 
affection,  I  would  cause  lilies  and  roses  to  spring 
forth  from  her  cheeks.  Now  I  come  late  and  ride 
early.  Guest,  woe  to  thee,  woe !  The  host  may 
well  sing  of  the  green  turf.  He  only  who  has  a 
hearth  of  his  own  can  cause  his  song  to  sound  forth 
joyfully."  His  grant  was  of  small  value,  and  he 


108  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

always  remained  poor.  Faithful  to  his  lyre,  he 
lived  on  to  old  age,  declaring  that  he  had  for  forty 
years  sung  songs  of  affection.  He  was  nobly  patri- 
otic, scourging  without  fear  the  faults  of  his  time. 
Unlike  many  of  his  class,  he  wrote  only  lays  that 
were  high  and  pure.  Here  is  one  of  his  love-songs, 
which  seems  to  me  full  of  tenderness  and  grace : 
"  Thoroughly  sweet  and  full  of  loveliness  are  pure 
women.  There  was  never  anything  so  lovely  in  air, 
or  on  earth,  or  in  all  the  green  meadows.  Lilies 
and  roses,  when  they  shine  in  the  May  dew  through 
the  grass,  and  the  song  of  little  birds,  are,  compared 
with  this  charm,  without  color  and  sound.  If  one 
sees  beautiful  women,  that  can  refresh  the  troubled 
spirit  and  extinguish  at  the  same  time  all  lamenting, 
when  their  sweet  red  lips  entrancingly  laugh  in  love, 
and  arrow's  dart  from  their  eyes  to  the  bottom  of 
man's  heart.  Lady,  nobly  sweet,  highly  praised, 
full  of  pure  goodness,  thy  modest  person  inspires 
the  spirit.  Thy  lips  are  redder  than  the  rose  amid 
the  dews.  God  has  exalted  and  ennobled  pure 
women,  so  that  one  may  prize  and  honor  them  for- 
ever more.  The  treasure  of  the  world,  with  all 
rapture,  lies  in  them.  For  discontent  and  sadness 
is  nothing  so  good  as  to  look  on  a  beautiful  maid 
well  disposed,  when  she  gives  to  her  lover  a  pleas- 
ant, heart-felt  smile."1  This  song  may  be  taken  to 
represent  the  minnesongs  when  at  their  best,  —  sen- 
suous, not  sensual ;  far  enough  from  descending  to 
licentiousness,  showing  simple  naturalness  of  feel- 

1  Pfeiffer  u.  Bartsch:  Deutsche  Klassiker  des  Mittelalters. 


THE    MINNESINGERS.  109 

ing,  and  a  love  of  nature  such  as  soon  after  ap- 
peared in  English  literature  in  Chaucer.  In  the 
following  song  Walther,  forsaking,  as  he  often  did, 
the  ordinary  themes  of  the  Minnesingers,  strikes  his 
lyre  with  noble  manhood.  "Who  slays  the  lion? 
Who  slays  the  giant?  That  does  he  who  tames 
himself,  and  brings  his  members  all  saved  out  of  the 
wild  storm  into  the  harbor  of  true  virtue.  He  who 
can  show  an  assumed  virtue  may  therewith  for  a 
while  play  the  hypocrite.  Easily  borrowed  is  the 
appearance  ;  quickly  it  is  lost  again." l 

Walther  von  der  Vogelweide  died  in  Wurzburg, 
and  nothing  we  know  concerning  him  is  quite  so 
picturesque  as  the  story  of  his  grave.  An  old 
chronicle  says  that  in  his  will  provision  was  made 
for  sinking  four  holes  into  the  stone  that  should 
cover  him,  into  which  corn  every  day  was  to  be 
poured  for  the  feeding  of  the  wild  birds.  Under 
bright  May  sunlight  I  beheld  the  gray  old  town, 
fortifications  of  the  present  century  rising  side  by 
side  with  structures  that  have  stood  for  ages,  and 
beyond  the  dark  current  of  the  Main  the  threaten- 
ing Marienberg,  as  gloomy  to-day  as  when,  in  the 
Thirty  Years  War,  it  tried  to  defy  the  victorious 
Gustavus.  A  hundred  great  associations  the  city 
has  with  men  and  events,  but  to  the  heart  of  the 
pilgrim  none  has  such  interest  as  that  the  ancient 
city  holds  the  grave  of  the  noblest  of  the  Minne- 
singers. As  the  eye  falls  upon  battlement,  sharp 
roof,  and  soaring  tower,  on  the  approach,  one  won- 


1  Pfeiffer  u.  Bartsch :  Deutsche  Klassiker  des  Mittelalters. 


110  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

ders  where  it  was  that  the  children  of  the  choir 
feasted  the  birds,  gathering  thick  each  day,  year  in 
and  year  out,  "  on  the  tree  that  overshadowed  all 
the  place,"  brushing,  as  with  grateful  wings,  the 
minstrel's  effigy  on  the  tombstone  beneath. 

While  among  the  vast  throng  of  the  Minnesingers 
towers  now  and  then  a  figure  full  of  genius  and 
manly  strength  like  Walther,  others  are  to  be  re- 
marked fantastic  and  absurd  to  the  last  degree. 
One  or  two  types  must  be  presented.  Master  John 
Hadlaub,  of  Zurich,  began  his  service  of  his  love 
when  he  was  but  a  child,  he  tells  us,  she  also  be- 
ing as  young.  She  was  of  high  station  ;  he  poor, 
and  the  son  of  an  humble  citizen.  In  his  youth  he 
sought  long  for  an  opportunity  to  confess  his  love, 
at  length  fastening  with  a  fish-hook  a  letter  to  his 
mistress'  robe  as  she  went  home  one  morning  early 
from  matins.  She  treated  him  with  great  harsh- 
ness, so  that  he  fell  down  in  his  suffering ;  but  cer- 
tain lords  lifted  him  up,  led  him  to  her  seat,  and 
gave  him  her  hand  to  hold,  which  strengthened  him 
again.  In  pity  for  him,  she  looked  at  him  pleas- 
antly, whereupon  he  pressed  her  hand  so  hard  that 
she  bit  him  to  free  herself.  A  greater  happiness 
could  not  have  happened  to  him ;  her  mouth  was 
sweet  beyond  words  to  express ;  her  bite  so  deli- 
cately tender  !  It  only  caused  him  pain  because  it 
lasted  so  short  a  time.  At  a  later  time  she  prom- 
ised to  receive  him  kindly,  but  at  his  coming 
locked  herself  into  a  room  until  Hadlaub  had  left 
the  house.  A  good  knight,  however,  comforted 
him  with  the  assurance  that  she  had  spoken  well  of 


THE    MINNESINGERS.  Ill 

him.  Once  he  saw  her  caress  a  child,  in  whose 
place  he  longed  to  stand.  When  she  had  departed 
he  took  the  child,  embraced  it,  then  kissed  it  upon 
the  spot  which  her  lips  had  touched,  in  this  way 
experiencing  great  happiness.  The  reader  will  not 
care  to  know  more  of  Master  Hadlaub's  love  ex- 
periences. He  is  among  the  last  of  the  Minne- 
singers, living  at  a  time  when  the  world  was  losing 
sympathy  for  their  extravagances.  As  one  follows 
his  detail  it  is  plain  that  the  object  of  his  passion 
was  a  good-hearted  girl,  who  honestly  pitied  him,  but 
was  embarrassed  and  troubled  by  his  absurd  woo- 
ing. Those  who  pretended  to  aid  him  really  made 
him  an  object  of  ridicule.  With  Hadlaub's  rhymes 
before  us,  we  can  make  out  a  lively  picture  from 
the  life  that  five  hundred  years  ago  went  forward  on 
the  shores  of  that  sapphire  lake, — the  merry,  mock- 
ing company,  the  well-disposed  maiden,  teased  and 
mortified  beyond  measure,  and  in  the  midst  the 
love-sick  simpleton. 

A  generation  or  two  earlier  the  follies  of  Had- 
laub  would  not  have  become  a  laughing-stock. 
The  temper  of  the  time  was  such  that  absurdities 
far  more  fantastic  excited  admiration  instead  of  con- 
tempt, so  strange  had  become  the  taste  of  the  world 
of  knights  and  courtiers.  Ulrich  von  Lichtenstein 
has  left,  in  his  book  called  "  Frauendienst," — "  Ser- 
vice of  Ladies," — a  detailed  account  of  his  life, 
which  is  full  of  curious  and  amusing  pictures.  He 
was  born  at  the  beginning  of  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury, of  a  noble  family  of  Austria,  in  his  twelfth 
year  choosing  a  lady  to  whose  service  he  might  de- 


112  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

vote  his  life.  He  served  her  for  five  years  as  a 
page ;  she  "was  already  married  and  established. 
He  was  trained  in  arms,  and  when  he  reached  man- 
hood received  the  castle  of  his  ancestors.  He 
sends  his  lady  a  song  in  which  he  begs  her  to  con- 
sent that  he  may  devote  himself  to  her  service ;  she 
praises  the  song,  but  treats  scornfully  his  petition, 
principally  on  account  of  a  deformity  of  the  singer's 
mouth,  whereupon  the  minstrel  submits  to  a  sur- 
gical operation  that  he  may  become  more  accept- 
able. The  lady  remains  hard-hearted,  however, 
whereupon  the  steadfast  knight  continues  to  send 
her  songs,  —  not  discouraged,  although  they  are  at 
once  returned.  Upon  one  of  the  missives  thus 
rejected  he  observes  at  length  that  something  is 
written  ;  but  since  he  cannot  read,  and  his  clerk  is 
not  at  hand,  he  carries  the  writing  upon  his  heart 
ten  days  and  nights,  ignorant  of  its  purport.  At 
length  the  clerk  returns,  with  whom  Ulrich  retires 
into  a  secret  chamber,  there  learning  that  the  mes- 
sage is  to  the  effect  that  many  a  man  speaks  what 
he  does  not  feel  in  his  heart. 

Ulrich  now  goes  everywhere  engaging  in  tourna- 
ments, and  gaining  many  a  prize.  At  Brixen  his 
finger  is  hurt,  and  soon  after  he  hears  that  his  lady 
laments  his  misfortune.  She,  moreover,  sends  him 
an  air  as  yet  unknown  in  Germany,  to  which  she 
asks  him  to  adapt  words.  Ulrich  straightway  com- 
poses a  song  to  the  air,  upon  the  worth  of  woman, 
which  so  pleases  the  lady  that  she  sends  him  a  pres- 
ent of  a  puppy ;  she  remains,  however,  cold  toward 
him,  complaining  that  he  has  done  too  little  for  her. 


THE    MINNESINGERS.  113 

When  Ulrich  hears  this  he  causes  the  finger  which 
has  been  hurt  to  be  cut  off,  and  has  a  little  book 
prepared,  bound  in  grass-green  velvet.  "  I  bade  a 
goldsmith,"  says  the  knight,  "  make  two  gold  bands 
for  me,  in  which  the  book  was  enclosed.  The  clasp 
was  very  pretty  and  suggestive,  being  in  the  form  of 
two  clasped  hands.  Inside  the  book  we  put  the 
finger."  The  singular  present  is  sent  to  the  chosen 
one,  who  receives  it  kindly,  but  laments  the  deed  of 
Ulrich,  which  she  declares  she  would  not  have  be- 
lieved possible  for  a  reasonable  man.  She  takes  care 
to  add  that  she  is  sorry  for  the  finger,  not  because 
she  loves  Ulrich,  but  because  he  has  lost  it  for  her 
sake  ;  that  she  intends  to  keep  the  finger  carefully  in 
her  drawer,  and  look  at  it  every  day ;  it  will,  how- 
ever, not  affect  her  if  he  serves  her  a  thousand 
years.  The  persistent  Ulrich  determines,  neverthe- 
less, to  undertake  a  great  adventure  in  her  honor. 

In  the  winter  of  1227  he  goes  to  Venice,  and 
there  causes  a  great  quantity  of  costly  female  ap- 
parel to  be  made,  among  which  are  three  mantles  of 
white  velvet.  He  buys,  moreover,  two  heavy  locks 
of  hair,  entwined  with  pearls.  Twelve  squires  re- 
ceive white  garments ;  snow-white  is  everything 
carried  by  him  and  his  train, — helm,  shield,  and  a 
hundred  new  spears.  His  coat  of  arms  is  of  fine 
cloth,  handsomely  plaited ;  his  horse  is  caparisoned 
with  velvet.  When  all  is  ready  he  despatches  a 
messenger  announcing  that  Venus,  queen  and  god- 
dess of  love,  is  coming,  and  will  teach  the  knights 
of  all  the  country  round  the  service  of  ladies  ;  that 
she  will  rise  from  the  sea  on  the  day  after  Saint 


114  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

George's  day,  and  proceed  to  Bohemia.  Every 
knight  who  will  come  to  meet  her  and  break  a  spear 
with  her  shall  receive  a  gold  ring  for  his  darling, 
which  will  make  her  more  beautiful,  and  cause  her 
to  love  him  truly.  Whoever  is  conquered  by  Venus 
shall  spread  the  fame  of  Ulrich's  mistress  to  all  the 
quarters  of  the  world  ;  but  whoever  shall  overcome 
the  goddess  shall  receive  all  her  horses.  On  the 
journey  she  will  allow  neither  her  countenance  nor 
her  hands  to  be  seen,  and  speak  with  nobody.  She 
will  outlaw  every  knight  who  hears  of  her  journey 
and  does  not  present  himself. 

On  the  day  appointed,  Ulrich  made  his  appear- 
ance upon  the  sea-shore,  in  a  little  village  of  the 
Adriatic,  in  the  midst  of  a  great  crowd.  First  rode 
his  marshal  and  cook  ;  then  followed  his  swan-white 
banner,  between  two  trumpeters  ;  then  servants  with 
pack-horses.  At  last  came  Ulrich's  shield  and  hel- 
met, followed  by  a  drummer,  spear-bearers,  two 
maids  clothed  in  white,  and  two  good  fiddlers,  who, 
says  the  book,  fiddled  a  jolly  march.  At  last  came 
Ulrich  himself,  on  horseback,  dressed  in  women's 
clothes.  His  mantle  was  of  white  velvet ;  his  hat 
decorated  with  white  pearls  and  surmounted  by  the 
two  heavy  locks  of  hair,  which,  also  decorated  with 
pearls,  hung  down  to  his  waist.  His  face  was  veiled, 
and  his  hands  covered  with  gloves  of  silk.  The 
progress  to  Bohemia  is  described  in  detail.  At 
Glockenitz  he  met  his  wife,  with  whom  he  remained 
a  day  without  being  recognized  by  others.  He  was 
married,  it  seems,  his  wife  not  being  at  all  the  mis- 
tress in  whose  honor  he  was  seeking  adventures ; 


THE   MINNESINGERS.  115 

his  good  understanding  with  her,  however,  from  all 
that  appears,  was  not  at  all  interrupted.  As  he 
proceeded  on  his  journey  his  train  grew  larger, 
until  at  length  he  entered  Vienna  with  eighty 
knights,  where  great  festivities  and  tournaments 
took  place.  After  these  the  train  again  went  for- 
ward, Ulrich  giving  away,  to  knights  who  responded 
to  his  summons,  two  hundred  and  seventy-one  rings, 
overthrowing  several  in  combat,  and  receiving  him- 
self a  number  of  wounds. 

In  spite  of  his  devotion  the  lady  was  not  won, 
but  treated  him  so  capriciously  that  he  wept,  and 
was  only  saved  from  suicide  by  the  intervention  of 
a  companion.  He  served,  however,  devotedly  for 
some  years  longer,  until,  as  he  says,  his  lady  did  to 
him  a  thing  which,  if  he  dared  say  what  it  was, 
would  call  forth  compassion  for  him  from  all  honest 
men.  Then,  at  last,  he  renounced  her,  presently 
taking  up  the  service  of  another  lady,  in  whose 
honor  he  undertook  new  progresses,  apparently 
meantime  on  good  terms  with  his  wife,  who  re- 
mained with  her  children  in  her  husband's  castle.1* 

Ulrich  von  Lichtenstein  wrote  the  Frauendienst 
when  he  was  more  than  fifty  years  old,  a  book  quite 
important  to  us  as  a  graphic  picture  of  a  courtly 
poet  and  his  work.  It  was  written  and  received 
by  his  generation  in  all  seriousness.  Ulrich,  as  a 
wealthy  and  high-born  noble,  plays  a  part  in  history, 
showing  many  proofs  of  abundant  bravery.  In  his 
old  age  he  was  accused  of  high  treason,  and  de- 


Kurz 


116  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

manded  the  ordeal  of  battle.  His  castles,  however, 
were  destroyed,  and  he  died  probably  in  poverty. 
The  old  manuscript  of  the  Frauendienst  gives  a  pict- 
ure representing  the  hero  in  full  armor,  on  horse- 
back, with  a  drawn  sword  in  his  hand.  Venus,  with 
an  arrow  in  one  hand  and  a  flame  in  the  other,  — 
a  figure  of  considerable  size, — forms  the  crest  of 
the  top-heavy  helmet.  The  knight  is  galloping 
through  a  rolling  sea,  in  which  sea-monsters  are 
fighting  together,  which  perhaps  is  intended  to  re- 
call the  alleged  rising  from  the  Adriatic. 

The  extravagance  of  Ulrich  is  so  very  fantastic 
that  some  scholars  cannot  believe  he  was  a  fair 
representative  of  his  class,  preferring  to  consider 
him  as  a  mediaeval  Don  Quixote  crazed  by  reading 
French  romances.  There  is  abundant  evidence, 
however,  to  show  that  in  the  courtly  circles  he  was 
held  in  his  time  in  honor,  and  that  his  example  was 
often  followed, —  a  fact  which  perhaps  may  be 
taken  as  indicating  a  singular  lack  of  the  perception 
of  the  ludicrous.  The  popular  instincts  of  this  time 
were  far  sounder,  a  healthy  sense  of  humor  being 
by  no  means  wanting,  which  did  much  to  make  the 
songs  and  poems  intended  for  the  folk  still  more 
natural  and  attractive.  Until  late  in  the  Middle 
Ages  a  favorite  figure  in  the  stories  of  the  people, 
to  which  we  recur  for  a  moment  for  comparison,  is 
the  monk  Ilsan,  a  character  in  the  "  Rose-garden  at 
Worms," — a  poem  in  which  many  legends  are 
blended,  and  which  received  its  latest  elaboration  in 
the  fifteenth  century,  after  furnishing  material  to 
several  poets  of  preceding  ages.  Kriemhild  holds 


THE   MINNESINGERS.  117 

court  at  Worms,  where  she  has  a  beautiful  rose- 
garden,  which  Siegfried,  with  twelve  heroes,  guards 
against  all  strangers.  Whoever  vanquishes  these 
guardians  with  an  equal  number  of  heroes  is  enti- 
tled to  become  liegeman  of  Kriemhild's  father; 
besides,  each  of  the  victors  shall  receive  as  reward 
a  rose-wreath  and  a  kiss  from  Kriemhild.  At  the 
suggestion  of  his  vassal,  Hildebrand,  Dietrich  of 
Berne  sets  forth  to  undertake  the  contest,  and  in 
the  story  of  the  expedition  the  main  figure  is  the 
monk  Ilsan,  a  personage  resembling  Friar  Tuck  of 
the  Robin  Hood  legends.  He  is  the  brother  of  Hil- 
debrand, and  has  been  twenty  years  in  the  cloister. 
He  has  become  old  and  gray,  but  since  a  twelfth 
hero  is  required,  he  is  to  be  taken  from  his  retire- 
ment to  fill  the  place.  The  adventurers  knock 
hard  at  the  gate  of  the  monastery,  and  Ilsan' s 
rough  voice  is  heard  from  within,  threatening  that 
they  shall  pay  dear  for  it  who  disturb  the  peace  of 
the  brotherhood.  "Sir,"  says  a  monk  who  has 
looked  out,  "  an  old  man  stands  at  the  gate  who  has 
three  wolves  upon  his  shield,  and  a  golden  snake 
upon  his  helmet-crest."  "By  the  god  of  war!" 
cries  Ilsan,  "that  is  my  brother  Hildebrand." 
"And  with  him  is  a  youth  upon  a  swift  horse,  with  a 
grim  lion  on  his  shield."  "  That  is  the  Lord  Diet- 
rich," cries  Ilsan,  and  the  gate  of  the  cloister  is 
opened.  "  Benedicite,  brother,"  cries  Hildebrand, 
to  whom  Ilsan  replies  with  an  old  soldier's  oath,  ask- 
ing why  he  is  always  on  some  warlike  enterprise. 
"We  are  going  to  Worms,"  is  the  reply,  "  to  see  the 
river  Rhine,  to  gain  rose-garlands,  and  a  woman's 


118  GERMAN  LITERATURE 

kiss."  Usan  no  sooner  hears  that  he  is  bidden  to 
the  expedition  than  his  old  battle  passion  is  aroused. 
With  a  lusty  throw,  he  flings  his  cowl  into  the  grass, 
revealing  beneath  his  old  fighting  garb,  which  has 
never  been  laid  aside.  As  he  departs,  the  remain- 
ing monks  run  after  him  and  wish  him  ill, — it  has 
been  his  habit  to  hale  them  about  by  their  ears  and 
beards  when  they  have  refused  to  do  his  will.  Ar- 
rived at  Worms,  he  gives  rein  to  his  spirit  of  wild 
mischief.  He  rolls  like  a  horse  in  the  flowers  of 
the  garden,  uses  his  fists  against  all  who  come  in 
his  way,  and  when,  after  the  victory,  in  which  he 
vanquishes  the  minstrel  Volker,  he  is  to  receive  the 
kiss  of  Kriemhild,  he  rubs  her  face  sore  with  his 
rough  beard.  The  rose-wreaths  which  fall  to  his 
share  he  takes  back  with  him  to  the  cloister,  and 
presses  them,  scratch  as  they  may,  down  upon  the 
heads  of  the  monks  who  insulted  him  at  his  depart- 
ure. He  orders  them  to  help  him  make  atonement 
for  his  sins,  and  when  they  refuse,  he  ties  their 
beards  together,  and  hangs  them,  two  and  two, 
across  a  pole. 

There  is  nothing  malicious  in  Ilsan ;  all  he  does 
and  says  is  in  rough,  exuberant  sport.  Every  word 
and  act  violates  propriety,  and  nothing  could  be 
more  shocking,  as  judged  by  the  finical  court  stand- 
ards. The  cloisters  of  the  time  furnished,  no  doubt, 
plenty  of  originals  for  such  a  portrayal.  Many  a 
wild  spirit,  momentarily  sick  of  tumult,  must  have 
sought  in  them  an  asylum.  In  the  tedium  of  their 
life,  they  sometimes  reverted  to  their  old  ways, 
chanted  to  one  another  the  war-songs,  as  in  the 


THE   MINNESINGERS.  119 

case  of  the  old  monks  at  Fulda,  to  whom  we  owe 
the  song  of  Hildebrand  ;  and  when  animal  spirits 
were  not  quenched  by  the  discipline,  no  doubt  the 
convent  precincts  resounded  with  the  horse-play  and 
rough  laughter  of  the  camp. 

Before  the  examination  of  the  literature  of  the 
Hohenstauffen  period  is  concluded,  an  important 
class  of  poets  remains  to  be  considered, — the  writ- 
ers of  the  Court  Epics.  As  has  been  noticed, 
the  Popular  Epics  are  derived  from  legends  relating 
to  the  ancient  deities,  and  the  history  of  the  Teu- 
tonic race  in  primeval  days.  In  interest  the  Popular 
Epics  surpass  all  that  has  been  transmitted  to  us 
from  the  period  we  are  studying.  In  treating 
their  subjects,  the  minstrels  show  a  poetic  gift  which, 
however  rude  it  may  be,  sways  the  heart  mightily. 
The  subjects  themselves  are  of  absorbing  fascina- 
tion. The  legends  they  preserve,  in  which  we 
dimly  see  the  spirit  and  movement  of  our  fore- 
fathers in  distant  days,  when  as  yet  no  Teuton  hand 
had  traced  a  letter,  affect  the  soul  only  with  a 
deeper  power  as  the  race  proceeds  onward  in  its 
history. 

The  Court  Epics  have  an  interest  inferior  to  the 
Popular  Epics,  according  to  the  general  judgment, 
both  on  account  of  the  subjects  chosen  and  the 
manner  in  which  they  are  treated.  Generally,  the 
subjects  are  foreign ;  or,  if  German  material  is  se- 
lected, it  is  such  as  had  first  received  a  foreign 
treatment.  The  Trojan  War,  Alexander  and  the 
heroes  of  classic  days,  saints  and  biblical  person- 


120  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

ages,  Charlemagne  and  his  Paladins,  —  above  all,  Ar- 
thur and  the  Knights  of  the  Round  Table,  —  are 
themes  which  gained  attention.  We  cannot  judge 
the  court  poets  severely.  What  seemed  good  to 
their  taste  has  been  attractive  ever  since  to  poets, 
even  to  our  own  time.  Morris  and  Tennyson,  —  yes, 
the  greatest  names  of  all,  Chaucer,  Spenser,  Milton, 
Shakespeare  himself,  —  are  elaborators  of  stories 
often  many  times  told,  and  coming  from  foreign 
sources,  often  the  same  as  those  treated  by  the  old 
German  singers.  As  to  manner,  while  the  popular 
poets  followed  their  own  simple  genius,  so  filling 
their  verses  with  an  inspiration, — rude,  but  genuine, 
and  of  the  freshest, — the  court  poets  were  trans- 
lators, adapters,  imitators,  postponing  themselves 
while  exalting  troubadour  and  trouvere  models ; 
over-refined  until  they  became  finical,  often  full  of 
false  delicacy.  In  the  list  of  court-epic  poets  are 
found,  however,  men  of  genius,  and  there  are  critics 
who  place  some  of  them  in  the  highest  position. 
Any  consideration  of  the  literature  of  the  period 
would  be  quite  inadequate  which  should  fail  to  give 
them  extended  mention. 

Three  contemporaries  are  the  great  names  among 
the  writers  of  the  Court  Epics, —  Hartmann  von 
Aue,  Gottfried  von  Strassburg,  and  Wolfram  von 
Eschenbach.1  Hartmann,  who  died  in  1220,  is 
reckoned  among  the  older  Minnesingers ;  he  was  a 
soldier  of  Barbarossa  in  his  expedition  to  the  Holy 
Land.  He  was  a  man  of  noble  birth  and  active 


1  Koberstein. 


THE   MINNESINGERS.  121 

habits,  who  regarded  his  poetic  fame  with  some  con- 
tempt, writing  his  verses  only  as  a  pastime,  when, 
as  he  says,  he  had  nothing  better  to  do.  It  has 
been  mentioned  that  it  is  impossible  to  make  a 
sharp  distinction  between  the  Court  and  Popular 
Poetry,  and  now,  in  considering  Hartmann,  the  dif- 
ficulty of  drawing  the  line  appears.  His  rank  and 
associations  brought  him  into  connection  with  the 
class  of  nobles,  and  for  them  he  wrote  ;  but  his  best 
and  most  famous  piece  is  thoroughly  national  in  its 
subject,  and  treated  in  a  manner  most  simple  and 
natural.  The  title  of  the  poem  is  "  Poor  Henry."  l 
A  rich  knight,  Heinrich  von  Aue,  is  attacked  by 
leprosy.  Despairing  of  cure,  he  goes  nevertheless 
to  Salerno,  the  reputation  of  whose  school  of  medi- 
cine was  unbounded  during  the  Middle  Ages,  where 
a  wise  physician  tells  him  that  he  can  only  be 
healed  through  the  blood  of  a  pure  maid  who  de- 
votes herself  freely  to  death  in  his  behalf.  Robbed 
of  all  hope,  he  returns  home,  where  he  gives  away 
his  property  and  withdraws  to  a  little  farm ;  this  a 
peasant  manages,  who,  through  Heinrich's  kindness, 
has  won  great  success.  The  farmer  cherishes  him 
faithfully,  aided  by  his  wife,  but  particularly  by  his 
daughter,  a  tender  girl  of  twelve.  She  is  con- 
tinually with  the  knight,  relieving  his  pain  through 
her  hearty  sympathy  and  love,  so  that  he  can  no 
longer  live  without  her,  and  in  sport  calls  her  his 
little  wife.  After  three  years  she  learns  by  chance 
the  means  through  which  alone  her  lord  can  be 

1  Per  arme  Heinrich. 


122  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

saved,  and  immediately  concludes  to  sacrifice  her 
life  for  him.  All  the  entreaties  of  her  parents  are 
useless.  The  generous  Heinrich  refuses  her  offer, 
but  is  at  last  won  by  her  entreaties,  and  the  knight 
and  the  maid  travel  together  to  Salerno.  She  there 
repeats  before  the  physician  that  she  voluntarily 
offers  herself  to  death.  The  salvation  of  her  own 
soul,  however,  is  always  the  uppermost  motive. 
The  physician  is  already  preparing  the  knife  for  the 
sacrifice,  when  Heinrich,  overpowered  by  the  dreadful 
thought,  forbids  the  murder.  He  returns  to  Swabia 
in  company  with  the  maid,  who  at  first  feels  very 
unhappy  at  the  failure  of  her  intention.  But  be- 
cause the  knight  has  humbled  himself  before  God, 
with  whose  decree  he  has  until  now  constantly 
striven,  on  account  of  his  misfortunes,  he  recovers 
from  his  sickness,  and  becomes  united  with  the 
maid  in  marriage.1 

It  is  in  many  points  a  sweet  and  simple  story,  — the 
same  used  by  Longfellow  in  the  Golden  Legend. 
It  is  wrought  out  by  the  Minnesinger  with  great 
tenderness,  touching  always  the  heart  of  the  world, 
and  finding  often  imitation.  If  looked  at  closely, 
however,  the  maid's  nobleness  is  far  enough  from 
being  of  the  highest.  She  is  not  self-forgetful. 
The  judgment  of  one  of  the  best  of  critics2  will 
not  seem  too  severe.  The  child  goes  forward  to 
her  death,  not  so  much  from  compassion  as  from 
the  idea  that  the  sacrifice  will  bring  to  pass  the  sav- 


1  Pfeiffer  u.  Bartsch :  Deutsche  Klassiker  des  Mittelalters. 
1  Gervinus. 


THE   MINNESINGERS.  123 

ing  of  her  own  soul.  When,  after  being  under  the 
knife  and  then  preserved,  she  despairs  of  this, — 
when  she  wishes  to  be  free  from  the  holiest  bonds  of 
nature,  from  father  and  mother,  — in  order  so  much 
the  quicker  to  share  the  eternal  life,  our  sympathy 
does  not  follow  her. 

Gottfried  von  Strassburg,  the  second  of  the  three, 
is  a  writer  of  great  elegance  and  delicacy,  although 
he  was  not  so  far  above  the  influences  that  sur- 
rounded him  as  to  be  kept  always  from  an  absurd 
over-refinement.  He  will  not  speak  of  sickness  or 
the  medicine  necessary  to  relieve  it,  considering 
such  topics  as  too  full  of  unpleasant  suggestion  to 
be  introduced  before  a  courtier  circle.  The  poem 
through  which  he  has  become  known, —  "Tristan 
and  Isolde," — in  matter  and  treatment,  is  based  on 
French  originals.  The  subject,  moreover,  —  the 
illicit  love  of  the  hero  and  heroine,  —  is  hardly 
moral.  Tristan  is  represented  as  wooing  Isolde 
for  his  master,  a  king.  The  suit  is  successful ;  but 
while  the  squire  conducts  the  bride  to  her  destina- 
tion, through  a  love  potion  which  they  drink  to- 
gether, supposing  it  to  be  wine,  their  hearts  become 
united,  and  a  clandestine  relation,  following  through 
many  years,  is  the  result, — described  in  long  detail. 
The  objectionable  features  of  the  story  are  so  far 
modified  that  they  cease,  in  great  part,  to  be  re- 
pulsive, and  although  Gottfried  is  only  an  imitator, 
his  genius  is  great  enough  to  secure  for  him  a  noble 
fame.1 

1  Pfeiffer  u.  Bartsch :  Deutsche  Klassiker  des  Mittelalters. 


124  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

Greatest,  however,  among  the  writers  of  the 
Court  Epics  is  Wolfram  von  Eschenbach.  He  was  a 
man  of  knightly  birth,  although  poor ;  a  zealous 
worker,  although  he  does  not  scruple  to  confess 
that  he  values  his  rank  more  highly  than  his  poetic 
gift.  Three  long  epics  —  Parzival,  Titurel,  and 
Willehalm  —  have  come  down  from  him  (Titurel 
and  Willehalm  in  fragmentary  shape),  an  accom- 
plishment quite  wonderful,  since  he  could  neither 
read  nor  write, — elaborating  in  rapt  mood  his  long- 
drawn  strophes,  then  dictating  them  to  a  scribe. 
The  Parzival  is  the  masterpiece,  and  the  only  work 
we  need  to  consider. 

In  the  Parzival,  Wolfram  combines  the  legends 
connected  with  the  Holy  Grail  with  the  Breton 
stories  relating  to  Arthur  and  the  Round  Table, — 
material  whose  charm  is  imperishable.  Deep  in  the 
ideas  of  gray  antiquity,1  in  the  myths  of  the  Orient, 
cradle  of  humanity,  is  rooted  the  legend  of  a  place 
on  the  earth  where,  untouched  by  sin  and  all  dis- 
tress of  life,  mortals  should  reach  the  fulness  of 
tireless  enjoyment,  —  a  spot  where  wishes  are  silent 
because  satisfied,  where  hopes  rest  because  fulfilled, 
where  the  thirst  for  knowledge  is  stilled,  and  the 
peace  of  the  soul  in  no  way  suffers  disturbance, — 
the  legend  of  "The  Earthly  Paradise."  As  this 
paradise,  in  the  consciousness  of  later  men,  retreated 
more  and  more,  a  relic  remained  behind  from  it, — 
something  conceived  of  as  a  costly  vessel,  from 
which  all  the  blessings  of  Heaven  might  pour  them- 

1  Vilmar. 


THE    MINNESINGERS.  125 

selves  upon  the  earth.  The  legends  connected  with 
the  vessel  the  deep  spirit  of  the  Middle  Ages 
caught,  although  springing  up  on  heathen  ground ; 
then  developed  them'  into  Christian  mythology, 
in  which  the  idea  of  salvation  through  Christ  re- 
ceived a  poetic  and  symbolical  form.  A  costly 
stone  of  wonderful  splendor  —  so  says  the  Christian 
myth  —  was  wrought  into  a  chalice,  and  became  the 
possession  of  Joseph  of  Arimathea.  From  this 
chalice,  Christ,  on  the  night  of  his  betrayal,  reached 
his  body  to  his  disciples  ;  into  it,  moreover,  when 
the  soldier,  Longinus,  had  opened  with  his  spear 
the  side  of  the  crucified  one,  was  received  that  blood 
which  flowed  for  the  salvation  of  the  world.  This 
vessel,  with  which  the  saving  of  the  world,  through 
the  sacrifice  of  Christ,  was  so  closely  connected,  in 
the  mediaeval  legend  became  endowed  with  super- 
nal powers.  Wherever  it  was  kept  and  cherished, 
it  was  believed  to  afford  the  richest  abundance  of 
blessings.  Whoever  looked  upon  it,  even  though 
he  should  be  sick  unto  death,  could  not  die  the 
same  week.  Whoever,  with  pure  spirit,  continually 
beheld  it  did  not  grow  old,  and  at  last  passed  into 
the  great  beyond  without  the  death-struggle.  This 
vessel  —  the  symbol  of  salvation  in  Christ  —  was 
called  the  Holy  Grail,  to  be  the  guardian  and  cher- 
isher  of  which  was  the  highest  dignity  of  humanity. 
Only  the  humblest,  truest,  and  chastest  were  worthy 
of  the  honor,  for  the  guardianship  implied  a  spirit- 
ual chivalry  of  the  noblest  kind.  There  must  be 
lowliness  and  purity,  as  well  as  the  strongest  and 
boldest  manhood ;  there  must  be  fidelity  toward 


126  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

God  and  toward  women,  —  self-renunciation,  tran- 
quil simplicity,  the  highest  wisdom. 

The  first  chief  of  these  Knights  of  the  Holy  Grail, 
or  "  Tempeleisen,"  as  they  were  called,  with  a  refer- 
ence to  the  Templars  of  the  Crusades,  was  Titurel, 
a  legendary  king  of  Anjou.  He  was  filled  with 
religious  chivalry,  and  had  never  felt  earthly  love 
for  woman.  To  this  stainless  knight  angels  came, 
bringing  the  Grail,  that  it  might  be  guarded.  It 
was  borne  to  Salva  Terra,  in  Biscaya,  where  Titurel 
built  upon  Montsalvage,  the  unapproachable  moun- 
tain, a  castle  for  his  knights  and  a  shrine  for  the 
relic.  Here  it  hovered  unsupported  in  the  air,  and 
ruled  the  order  of  the  Tempeleisen.  At  times,  in  a 
supernatural  way,  commands  appeared  as  a  gleam- 
ing inscription  on  the  vessel's  edge.  Every  Good 
Friday  a  white  dove  was  seen  flying  thitherward  to 
lay  a  holy  wafer  within  the  Grail,  through  which 
its  power  was  renewed. 

The  splendor  of  the  temple  is  painted  glowingly 
by  a  disciple  of  Wolfram  —  Albrecht  von  Scharfen- 
berg.  The  surface  of  the  mountain  was  of  onyx, 
so  polished  that  it  shone  like  the  moon.  Hereon 
was  dra\vn  by  the  hand  of  God  the  plan  of  the  castle 
and  the  temple.  The  temple  was  a  vast  dome,  sur- 
rounded by  chapels  ;  these,  in  turn,  surmounted  by 
towers.  There  were  pillars  of  bronze,  adorned  with 
gold  and  pearls.  There  were  arches  of  sapphire, 
and  in  the  midst  an  emerald,  whereon  was  enamelled 
a  lamb,  with  the  banner  of  the  cross.  The  altar, 
moreover,  was  sapphire,  —  a  type  of  the  annihila- 
tion of  sin,  —  and  in  its  ornaments  all  precious 


THE   MINNESINGERS.  127 

stones  were  united.  A  diamond  and  a  topaz  pre- 
sented the  sun  and  moon,  so  that  by  night  the  in- 
terior sparkled  in  wonderful  splendor.  The  win- 
dows were  of  beryl  and  crystal,  adorned  with  paint- 
ings, to  assuage  the  burning  glow;  the  floor,  of 
crystal,  clear  as  water.  Upon  the  temple's  pinnacle 
was  a  mighty  carbuncle,  which  beamed  at  night  —  a 
beacon  to  the  Knights  of  the  Grail  —  far  into  the 
thick  wood  of  cypresses  and  cedars,  into  which  no 
one  could  come  uncalled.  When  at  length  the  world 
grew  godless,  the  temple  was  carried  off  bodily  by 
angels.1 

This  picturesque  and  splendid  legend,  which  per- 
haps received  first  its  Christian  form  in  Spain,  and 
was  afterwards  developed  in  France  and  Germany, 
fascinated  thoroughly  the  spirit  of  Wolfram .  Dream- 
ing over  it  in  the  castle  of  the  Wartburg,  where  he 
lived  and  sang  for  many  years,  protected  by  the 
landgrave  of  Thuringia,  he  blended  with  it  the  not 
less  interesting  Celtic  legend  of  Arthur.  There  is 
no  need  to  detail  this.  The  greatest  of  the  poets  of 
to-day  has  made  familiar  as  household  words  the 
names  of  Arthur  and  Guinevere,  of  Gawain  and 
Galahad;  of  Carleon,  where  gathered  the  court, 
and  the  wood  of  Broceliande,  whither  the  knights 
rode  in  quest  of  adventure.  The  same  traditions, 
gathered  by  Geoffrey  of  Monmouth,  long  ago,  among 
the  Celtic  minstrels,  passing  the  sea  to  inspire  first 
the  old  Provensal  singers,  carried  to  many  lands, 
and  alive  in  many  ages  even  until  now,  thrilled  the 


1  Bibliothek  der  deutschen  Klassikcr. 


128  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

spirit  of  that  knight  in  the  solitary  Thuringian  fast- 
ness, and  there  he  wrought  toward  a  noble  and 
beautiful  result. 

Wolfram's  work  is  variously  judged.  Though 
full  of  grace,  it  is  certainly  of  wearisome  length, 
and  so  entangled  with  episode  and  incident  that  to 
give  the  story,  even  in  abstract,  is  far  from  easy. 
Parzival,  the  hero,  spends  his  youth  isolated  from 
the  world,  of  whose  ways  he  learns  nothing.  A 
high  yearning  drives  him  forth  to  adventures.  The 
guardianship  of  the  Holy  Grail  has  been  destined 
for  him  ;  he  reaches  Montsalvage  and  beholds  its 
splendor,  but,  in  ignorance,  misses  his  destiny. 
Purified  and  exercised  in  long  trials,  in  his  manly 
ripeness  he  becomes  capable  of  the  sublime  office, 
attaining  at  last  the  Grail  and  the  highest  bliss.1  I 
find  the  Parzival  characterized  as  a  psychological 
epic,  representing  the  purifying  of  a  soul  through 
battle  with  the  world  and  itself.  A  mystic  symbol- 
ism runs  through  it,  such  as  belongs  to  the  writers 
of  the  "  Komantic  School,"  a  class  to  be  hereafter 
considered,  who  flourished  in  the  first  years  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  and  whom  Wolfram  surprisingly 
resembles.  Taking  the  story  of  Arthur  as  a  type 
of  cheerful  worldly  life,  connecting  it  with  the  story 
of  the  Grail,  a  symbol  of  spiritual  life,  he  illustrates 
the  parallels  and  contrasts  of  the  two  directions. 
So  he  sought  to  penetrate  into  the  depths  of  the 
spiritual  world  and  find  mystical  relations,  losing 
himself  sometimes  in  a  haze  of  unintelligibility. 

1  "Wackernagel. 


THE    MINNESINGERS.  129 

Yet  it  is  right  to  say  that  he  surpasses  all  the  poets 
of  his  class  in  fulness  and  depth  of  thought;  that, 
he  possesses  a  noble  moral  earnestness,  a  fine  sensi- 
bility toward  things  high  and  beautiful,  the  most 
humane  impulses.  Many  a  page  is  radiant  with  po- 
etic splendor.  The  "Romantic  School,"  in  modern 
times,  has  accorded  to  him  the  highest  praise,  its 
founder  and  leader l  calling  him  the  greatest  of  Ger- 
man poets. 

Arriving  at  Eisenach  from  the  north,  I  spent  the 
night  at  the  "Anker,"  and  in  the  morning  of  a 
bright  July  day  went  out  for  rny  first  view  of  the 
Wartburg.  There  it  hung,  upon  the  summit  of 
the  swelling  hill,  six  hundred  feet  above  the  town, 
the  winding  path  —  trodden  by  such  multitudes  of 
historic  men  —  leading  to  it  through  the  forest. 
There,  in  1817,  met  the  high-hearted  German  youth, 
assembling  from  the  universities  to  demand  of  the 
temporizing  princes  of  the  Holy  Alliance  the  fulfil- 
ment of  their  pledges,  —  pledges  made  in  the  great 
"Freedom  War,"  to  win  the  help  of  the  people, 
and  which,  now  that  the  end  was  gained,  they  had 
no  desire  to  fulfil.  Up  this  path  again,  three  hun- 
dred years  before,  hurried  the  friendly  captors  of 
great  Martin  Luther,  with  pretended  roughness  hal- 
ing their  prisoner  to  the  stronghold,  there  to  reveal 
themselves  to  him,  and  bolt  out  in  his  behalf  a 
hostile  world,  which  reached  for  faggots  to  burn 
him.  And,  in  a  still  older  time,  down  the  hill 
walked,  on  errands  of  mercy,  the  beautiful  Saint 


Friedrich  Schlegel. 


130  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

Elizabeth  of  Hungary,  —  loveliest  of  saints,  perhaps 
all  the  more  attractive  for  her  naive  insincerities,  in 
which,  according  to  the  story,  Heaven  was  her 
ally.  There  are  these  associations,  and  others  as 
interesting,  —  none  finer,  however,  than  this  :  That 
the  court  here  of  the  Landgrave  Hermann,  in  the 
Hohenstauffen  days,  more  than  any  spot  of  that 
world  perhaps,  was  a  centre  of  light;  the  castle 
hall  ringing  ever  with  the  sound  of  minstrelsy, 
the  portcullis  ever  rising  to  admit  the  wandering 
singer,  the  hospitable  roof  sheltering  many  a  busy 
brain,  elaborating  lyric  and  romance.  In  my  pil- 
grimage I  climbed  the  path  to  the  castle,  magnificent 
to-day  as  ever,  for  its  princely  owner  has  restored 
it  entirely  in  the  ancient  taste.  I  stood  in  the  hall 
in  which  the  knights  banqueted,  where  so  much  of 
the  mediaeval  poetry  had  its  first  rehearsal,  after  the 
flagons  were  filled,  the  landgrave  and  his  knights 
sitting  attentive.  On  the  wall  was  painted  the 
strife  of  the  Minnesingers,  of  which,  says  the  le- 
gend, the  hall  was  the  scene,  —  the  song-battle, 
in  which  the  conquered  were  to  suffer  death, — 
the  figures  of  the  Hungarian  minstrel  Klingsor,  of 
Heinrich  von  Ofterdingen,  and  Wolfram  von  Esch- 
enbach  looking  from  the  fresco  into  the  broad 
spaces  that  had  really  known  their  figures  in  life. 
Where  was  it  among  the  nooks  of  the  castle  that 
Wolfram  dreamed  and  dictated?  No  one  can  tell 
the  precise  spot,  but  I  could  be  sure,  as  from 
the  castle  height  my  eye  went  forth  over  Thu- 
ringia,  —  the  wooded  hills  heaving  high,  now  and 
then  from  the  valley  a  flash  of  light  from  a  blue 


THE    MINNESINGERS.  131 

stream,  upon  isolated  peaks  here  and  there  a  crum- 
bling tower, —  that  it  was  this  landscape  which  re- 
freshed him,  and  which  he  wrought  into  his  poem. 
I  climbed  down  from  the  castle  by  a  mountain 
road  into  the  pleasant  Anna-thai,  crossing  the  Co- 
burg  highway ;  then  through  the  ravine  of  the 
dragon,  into  the  woodlands  beyond.  Turning 
among  the  thickets,  I  got  my  farewell  glimpse  of 
the  Wartburg,  at  a  distance  of  several  miles.  The 
foliage  was  dense,  but  through  a  circular  break 
appeared,  high  in  the  air,  the  summit  of  the  rock, 
and  the  Wartburg,  rising  from  it,  relieved  against 
the  heavens.  The  green  in  which  the  view  was 
framed  cut  off  from  the  vision  all  connection  with 
the  earth ;  the  distance  was  great  enough  to  soften 
all  outlines,  veiling  with  summer  haze  the  lofty 
walls,  till  they  seemed  mysterious  and  almost  spir- 
itual. Buttress,  bastion,  and  high-soaring  tower, — 
held  for  the  moment  in  the  blue  bosom  of  the 
heavens,  indistinct  through  a  league  of  interven- 
ing vapory  atmosphere,  —  seen  when  the  heart  was 
touched  by  the  multitude  of  memories  !  So  upon 
Montsalvage,  before  the  eye  of  some  aspiring 
knight,  might  have  towered  the  shrine  of  the  Holy 
Grail,  and  the  home  of  that  troop  of  chivalry  who 
were  set  apart,  through  pure-minded  manhood,  to 
be  its  guardians ! 


CHAPTER    VI. 

DEVELOPMENT  OF  PROSE. 

There  is  no  spot  in  Germany  where  a  pilgrim  feels 
so  strongly  the  might  and  majesty  of  the  mediaeval 
emperors  as  in  the  cathedral  of  Speyer.  Its  cor- 
ner-stone was  laid  in  1030,  by  the  Emperor  Kon- 
rad  I.,  and  it  became  in  succeeding  years  the  scene 
of  a  large  part  of  what  was  most  brilliant  and  im- 
portant in  the  world.  Here  kings  plighted  faith  to 
their  queens ;  here  Peter  the  Hermit  preached  the 
Crusade  ;  here  came  popes  from  Rome  to  give  dig- 
nity to  coronations.  In  its  crypts  were  buried  eight 
emperors.  Their  graves,  to  be  sure,  have  been  des- 
ecrated, and  the  roof  above  them  burned,  by  the 
vandal  armies  of  Louis  XIV. ;  but  in  our  century 
an  art-loving  king  has  restored  the  ruin  to  more 
than  its  old  splendor. 

One  day  I  passed  into  the  city  of  Speyer  through 
a  picturesque  gateway,  high  above  which  rose  an 
ancient  watch-tower,  then  along  a  modern  street,  at 
the  end  of  which  was  the  cathedral  front.  Through 
the  rounded  arch  that  formed  the  portal  I  stepped 
into  the  vestibule,  and  found  myself  in  an  august 
presence-chamber.  Before  me  rose,  in  imposing 
presentment,  the  forms  of  the  emperors  who  were 
here  laid  to  rest.  They  stood  in  the  armor  of  their 


DEVELOPMENT   OF  PROSE.  133 

time,  or  girt  about  by  robes  of  state,  —  majestic 
figures,  with  faces  of  power.  From  here  opened 
the  long  perspective  of  the  nave,  beautiful  indeed ! 
The  columns  followed  one  another  in  a  gigantic  line, 
arching  over  at  the  top  into  mighty  circles.  Upon 
the  walls  were  thrown  frescoes  made  splendid  with 
scarlet  and  gold.  The  light  streamed  in  abundantly, 
till  I  was  bewildered  with  the  multiplied  scenes  and 
the  glory  of  the  color.  Passing  onward,  I  stood 
presently  in  the  main  choir,  treading  upon  a  pave- 
ment inlaid  with  the  "  Reichs-adler  " — the  imperial 
eagle.  Two  statues  were  on  either  hand ;  the  one 
to  the  right  represented  Rudolph  of  Hapsburg,  sit- 
ting throned  and  crowned,  with  the  insignia  of  rule 
in  his  hand,  his  face  turned  toward  the  high  altar ; 
the  one  to  the  left  was  Adolph  of  Nassau  —  a  war- 
rior in  complete  armor,  kneeling  with  folded  palms, 
the  face  also  turned  toward  the  high  altar.  It  is 
said  that  he  lost  his  life  in  battle  because  he  refused 
to  wear  his  helmet ;  so  in  the  marble  figure  the 
head  is  bared,  with  countenance  full  of  manly  grace. 
Right  and  left  swept  the  arms  of  the  transept,  be- 
tween them  the  gorgeous  depth  of  the  chancel,  the 
spaces  among  the  lofty  pillars  everywhere  aflame 
with  the  utmost  the  painter's  hand  could  work, — 
not  a  panel  Avtihout  its  adoring  figure, — the  wings 
of  angels  spread  abroad  in  the  vaults  of  the  lofty 
ceiling.  Below,  in  the  crypt,  I  saw  the  effigy  of 
Rudolph  of  Hapsburg,  cut  six  hundred  years  ago, 
by  an  artist  who  took  face  and  figure  from  life. 

And  now  I  stood  with  a  congregation  of  hundreds 
gathered  for  the  vesper  service.     Through  the  flash- 


134  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

ing  arches  sounded  the  music  of  the  organ;  the 
priest  intoned  his  prayers,  and  knelt  in  his  rich 
robes  ;  from  the  censers  arose  the  smoke  of  incense. 
At  one  side  knelt  a  company  of  nuns,  their  heads 
bent  toward  the  altar,  and  their  hands  folded  ;  just 
in  front,  the  figure  of  Adolph  of  Nassau,  with  its 
folded  palms,  seemed  to  be  at  one  with  the  worship- 
pers. From  the  doorway,  at  length,  I  cast  a  part- 
ing glance  backward.  The  fume  of  the  incense  still 
made  dim  the  vaults  of  the  ceiling ;  the  low  after- 
noon sun  still  shone  on  the  halos  of  the  martyrs 
and  the  white  robes  of  the  virgins  ;  in  the  vestibule 
towered  the  great  figures  of  the  emperors,  some 
mailed  and  sworded,  some  crowned  and  sceptred, — 
the  stamp  of  power  on  the  brow,  a  fine  energy  in 
every  limb.  So  stand  the  great  kaisers  of  the  past 
in  the  spot  that  once  knew  their  forms  so  well,  to 
which,  after  their  wild  battle  with  the  elements  of 
disorder  about  them,  they  were  borne  at  last  for  the 
final  rest. 

In  the  cathedral  at  Speyer  the  student  of  his- 
tory asks  himself  the  question  whether  the  men 
whose  figures  rise  before  him,  —  tenfold  more  im- 
pressive in  the  great  awakening  which  his  soul  has 
undergone,  touched  by  all  the  superb  surrounding 
circumstance,  —  whether  they  really  were  so  great, 
deserving  of  such  splendid  commemoration.  Look- 
ing attentively  at  the  story  of  their  deeds,  many  of 
them  deserve  to  be  represented  to  us  clothed  with 
majesty, — Karl  the  Great,  Henry  the  Fowler,  some 
of  his  descendants  in  the  great  Saxon  line  that  fol- 
lowed him,  several  of  the  Franconian  line,  the  Hohen- 


DEVELOPMENT   OF  PROSE.  135 

stauffen,  Eudolph  of  Hapsburg  ;  among  all  the  rulers 
whom  the  earth  has  seen,  there  are  none  more  clearly 
born  to  command  than  these.  The  greatest  of  them 
made  mistakes  ;  their  rule  was  often  harmful  rather 
than  beneficial,  but  they  were  men  of  might.  They 
suffered  sometimes  from  the  very  excess  of  energy. 
Germany,  even  to  our  own  time,  offers  an  instruc- 
tive example  of  the  folly  of  attempting  too  much. 
Karl  the  Great  overreached  himself  in  attempting  to 
comprehend  within  a  single  empire  an  extent  of 
country  so  vast,  inhabited  by  populations  so  different 
in  speech  and  character.  His  successors  followed 
too  closely  his  precedent,  and  especially  brought 
woe  upon  their  native  land,  for  which  they  wished 
and  sought  the  best,  by  striving  for  the  subjugation 
of  Italy.  The  manhood  and  resources  of  Germany 
were  wasted  in  struggles  with  Italian  princes  or 
confederated  cities.  The  emperors,  to  gain  support, 
indispensable  in  their  difficult  undertakings,  as  time 
went  on,  increased  too  much  the  power  of  their  feu- 
datories. The  land  grew  weak  and  waste,  because 
its  strength  was  lavished  abroad ;  at  length  those 
who  came  to  the  purple  were  confronted  by  vassals 
nearly  or  quite  as  powerful  as  themselves,  toward 
whom  must  be  used  the  language  of  suitor  or  de- 
pendent, rather  than  that  of  master.  The  result 
was,  at  length,  an  utter  disintegration  of  the  realm. 
An  observer  writing  in  our  own  time,  just  before 
the  unifying  work  of  Bismarck  had  begun  to  make 
itself  felt,  remarks  :  "  The  traveller  in  Central  Ger- 
many is  annoyed  to  find  every  hour  or  two,  by  the 
change  in  the  soldiers'  uniforms  and  the  color  of 


136  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

the  stripes  on  the  railway  fences,  that  he  has  passed 
out  of  one  and  into  another  of  its  miniature  king- 
doms. Much  more  surprised  and  embarrassed  would 
he  have  been  a  century  ago,  when,  instead  of  the 
present  thirty-seven,  there  were  three  hundred  petty 
principalities  between  the  Alps  and  the  Baltic,  each 
with  its  own  laws,  its  own  courts,  in  which  the  cere- 
monious pomp  of  Versailles  was  fully  reproduced  ; 
its  little  armies,  its  separate  coinage,  its  tolls  and 
custom-houses  on  the  frontier,  its  crowd  of  meddle- 
some and  pedantic  officials,  presided  over  by  a  prime 
minister  who  was  generally  the  unworthy  favorite  of 
his  prince  and  the  pensioner  of  some  foreign  court. 
This  system  paralyzed  the  trade,  literature,  and  po- 
litical thought  of  Germany." 1 

The  generation  now  upon  the  stage  will  remember 
that  the  school-map  of  Germany  studied  in  their 
childhood  seemed  to  be  afflicted  with  a  disfiguring 
eruption,  to  such  an  extent  was  it  covered  with 
minute,  variously-colored  spots.  This  unwholesome- 
ness  was  the  symptom  of  one  of  the  worst  diseases 
that  can  attack  the  body  politic,  — a  trouble  for  which 
the  English  language  has  no  name,  but  which  the 
Germans  call  "  Particularismus,"  "  Vielstaaterei," 
—  the  disintegration  of  a  people,  through  weakness 
in  the  national  spirit,  into  a  multitude  of  small  sec- 
tions, each  sovereign,  or  nearly  so,  of  the  kind  de- 
scribed in  the  foregoing  quotation.  No  race  has 
suffered  so  much  from  "Particularismus"  as  the 
Germans.  The  inroads  of  the  disease  were  gradual, 

1  Bryce :    The  Holy  Roman  Empire. 


DEVELOPMENT    OF    PROSE  137 

until  at  length,  af  the  peace  of  Westphalia,  in  1648, 
it  reached  its  worst.  Several  successive  maps  in  the 
great  historical  series  of  Spruiier  have  the  appear- 
ance of  pathological  charts.  The  complexion  of 
Karl  the  Great's  vast  empire  was  clear;  but  soon 
spots  innumerable  appear,  of  all  colors  and  shapes, 
which,  when  examined  in  the  fine  print  which  the 
number  and  minuteness  make  necessary,  prove  to 
be  principalities,  bishoprics,  countships,  abbacies, 
and  what-nots,  that  have  broken  out  among  elector- 
ates, grand-duchies,  circles,  —  what-nots  of  a  larger 
sort.  In  each  map  the  unwholesomeness  varies, 
Germany  in  the  time  of  the  strong  dynasties — the 
Saxons,  the  Franconians,  the  Hohenstauffen — being 
clear,  but  at  last  developing  a  most  unsightly  tetter. 
As  the  days  of  the  Hohenstauften  draw  to  a  close, 
in  the  thirteenth  century,  a  power  was  developing 
itself  in  Germany  which,  if  the  emperors  had  been 
far-seeing  enough  to  use  it,  would  have  secured  to 
them  their  might,  and  perhaps  ave'rted  the  dis- 
integration whose  consequences  became  so  sad.  It 
was  not  at  first  that  the  wandering  Teutons  could 
bring  themselves  to  forsake  their  nomad  life  to  be- 
come dwellers  in  cities  ;  but  during  the  tenth  cen- 
tury, what  had  been  originally  fortresses  or  trading 
and  mission  stations  were  enlarging  and  changing 
their  character.  Those  who  had  assembled  for 
temporary  protection  found  it  convenient  to  remain 
in  the  shelter ;  the  people  newly  Christianized 
naturally  collected  about  the  church  ;  the  merchants, 
no  longer  wanderers,  became  fixed  at  convenient 
points.  Civilization  brought  new  demands,  and  in 


138  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

the  spots  where  population  was  beginning  to  centre 
sprung  up  the  work-shops  necessary  to  satisfy  them. 
The  consciousness  grew  rapidly  in  the  minds  of  the 
people  that,  banded  together  and  fenced  in  by  a 
substantial  wall,  they  were  far  safer  than  in  isola- 
tion ;  that  there  was  a  richness  too  in  social  life, 
in  this  way  made  possible,  that  the  solitary  could 
not  enjoy. 

No  sooner  had  the  cities  begun  to  gain  strength 
than  they  showed  a  spirit  of  independence  which 
made  them  hated  by  the  nobles,  now  sinking  toward 
barbarism.  These  watched  jealously  from  their  rob- 
ber-castles, which  stood  on  every  prominent  height, 
the  progress  of  the  sturdy  burghers.  The  emper- 
ors were  often  great  men,  deserving  to  be  remem- 
bered with  reverence,  to  be  commemorated  mag- 
nificently,— as  in  the  cathedral  at  Speyer,  —  but 
they  were  not  wise  enough  to  see  in  these  cities 
their  proper  allies,  and  by  striking  hands  with  them 
to  crush  between  them  the  power  of  the  nobles  that 
threatened  both.  After  Rudolph  of  Hapsburg, 
from  the  end  of  the  thirteenth  century,  a  change 
for  the  worse  appears  in  the  potentates.  Few  come 
to  power  who  are  not  either  weak  or  bent  upon  self- 
ish aggrandizement ;  and  so  the  land  goes  forward 
into  that  wretched  distraction  which,  by  dissipat- 
ing, so  weakened  its  strength,  —  the  "  Vielstaate- 
rei,"  which  has  only  just  come  to  an  end. 

We  must  not  occupy  ourselves  with  any  dis- 
cussion of  the  political  significance  of  the  cities. 
They  have,  however,  an  important  relation  to  the 
development  of  literature,  and  that  we  must  con- 


DEVELOPMENT   OF   PROSE.  139 

sider.  Eudolph  of  Hapsburg,  as  he  lies  in  effigy  in 
the  crypt  of  the  cathedral  of  Speyer,  has  the  face 
and  form  of  a  man  born  to  command,  —  and  com- 
mand he  did,  —  but  found  no  leisure,  perhaps  had  no 
inclination,  to  follow  the  precedent  of  Barbarossa 
and  Friedrich  II.,  in  patronizing  the  singers.  The 
songs  in  which  the  degenerating  minstrels  cursed 
him  are  still  extant ;  one  of  them  is  that  of  the 
school-master  of  Esslingen,  a  line  or  two  of  which 
was  given  in  the  preceding  chapter.  At  Rudolph's 
death  the  powers  of  disorder  were  sadly  rife ;  and, 
besides,  floods,  the  Black  Death,  famine,  produced 
in  the  world  a  terrible  gloom.  The  young  cities, 
stoutly  walled  in,  and  with  burghers  as  ready 
and  skilful  at  wielding  bow  and  spear  as  at  the 
anvil  and  loom,  fenced  out,  in  part,  the  devour- 
ing calamity.  To  them — now  that  the  monks  and 
priests  were  sinking  into  sloth  and  ignorance,  and 
the  chivalry  becoming  little  better  than  wolves  — 
literature  at  length  turned.  The  first  period  of 
bloom  of  German  poetry  comes  to  an  end  with  the 
thirteenth  century.  Now  at  length  comes  the  de- 
velopment of  prose,  which  always  follows  that  of 
poetry.  It  began  in  the  cities  ;  the  first  prose  was 
intended  for  the  class  of  burghers  ;  with  the  begin- 
nings of  German  prose  no  place  is  so  closely  associ- 
ated as  Strassburg,  and  in  Strassburg  the  cathedral. 
Coming  from  the  direction  of  the  Schwarzwald 
to  the  ramparts  of  Kehl,  the  traveller  crosses  the 
Rhine,  still  flowing  cold  from  its  Alpine  source, 
then  presently  passes  through  a  gate  in  a  bastion  of 
the  great  fortress.  The  streets  are  often  narrow, 


140  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

the  houses  piled  high  with  steep  roofs,  showing  row 
on  row  of  quaint  dormer  windows.  The  population 
lives,  in  good  part,  under  the  very  ridge-poles  ;  for 
the  pressure  of  its  armed  girdle  has  forced  the  city 
somewhat  unnaturally  into  the  air.  In  the  streets 
it  is  the  German  speech  that  one  hears,  and  the  old 
Alsatian  dress  that  one  sees ;  while  one  cannot  re- 
main in  the  city  long  without  becoming  aware  of 
quaint  customs  and  institutions  transmitted  from 
the  Alemanni,1  who  in  the  days  of  Julian  crossed 
the  Rhine  and  built  the  city.  Through  an  ave- 
nue of  houses,  rather  toppling  under  the  weight 
of  upper  stories  too  many  and  too  large,  one  ap- 
proaches the  cathedral.  A  telescope  almost  is 
necessary  to  catch  fairly  the  rose  on  the  top  of  the 
spire,  and  a  microscope  to  disentangle  the  infinite 
maze  of  the  tracery  which  is  spun  before  it  from 
pinnacle  to  pavement.  The  solidity  of  wall  and 
buttress  is  veiled  by  a  drapery  of  gossamer,  in 
weaving  which  the  chisel  assumed  the  function  of 
the  shuttle. 

In  the  bright  light  of  noon  I  went  into  the  in- 
terior. The  walls  of  the  cathedral  of  Speyer  fairly 
flashed  in  the  cheerful  light  with  their  gold  and 
color.  The  sombre  columns  of  the  Strassburg 
minster,  on  the  other  hand,  rose  upward  in  a  soft- 
ened light.  The  windows  were  full  of  richly  stained 
glass,  —  placed  by  the  hands  of  mediaeval  work- 
men,—  which  dimmed  the  blaze  of  the  sun,  and  set 
before  the  eye  the  forms  of  apostles,  martyrs, 


1  Oscar  Schwebel :  Historische  Bilder  aus  dem  Elsass. 


DEVELOPMENT   OF   PROSE.  141 

saints.  The  great  aisles  were  dusky,  and  through 
them  sounded  the  organ,  answering  the  chant  of  a 
rich-voiced  priest.  As  in  Speyer,  the  vestments 
glittered  before  a  decorated  altar,  and  the  smoke  of 
the  incense  ascended  among  the  arches.  Climbing 
up  to  the  great  platform,  I  saw  from  within,  and 
near  at  hand,  how  the  stones  were  placed,  — what 
pains  the  builders  had  taken.  I  heard  and  felt  the 
pulsation  of  the  clock,  then  the  boom  and  throb  of 
the  cathedral  bell  as  it  tolled  the  hour.  Far  away 
from  the  city  the  eye  ranged  over  the  fields  of 
Alsace  and  the  plain  of  the  Rhine,  framed  in  be- 
tween the  Vosges  and  the  Schwarzwald.  Lilies  of 
poplars  and  blossoming  fruit-trees  marked  the  high- 
ways ;  embossed  upon  the  plain,  lay  around  the 
city  the  long  lines  of  entrenchment,  like  an  intri- 
cate pattern  of  chenille  embroidery,  out  from 
which  wandered  the  stream  into  meadows  overhung 
by  the  warm  spring  vapor.  But  I  love  to  remem- 
ber the  cathedral  best  as  I  saw  it  from  the  distant 
plain  in  which  Turenne  was  slain,  whence,  at  the 
distance  of  a  league  or  two,  its  towering  mass  sub- 
dued the  city  and  the  landscape ;  and  the  spire, 
with  the  light  showing  everywhere  through  its 
substance,  hovered  on  the  horizon  like  a  beautiful 
ghost.  The  men  that  built  it  have  been  dead  four 
hundred  years,  but  they  survive  there  by  their 
genius,  which  is  still  concrete,  visible,  unexorcised.1 
No  prose  has  come  down  to  us  from  any  knightly 


1  "Voyez  quelle  immobility  quelle  dure'e  les  mortels  peuvent 
donner  a  leurs  oeuvres,  tandis  qu  'euxmemes  ils  passent  si  rapide- 
ment  et  ne  se  survivent  que  par  le  ge"nie !  " — Madame  de  Stael. 


142  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 

author  who  lived  during  the  period  of  bloom  in 
poetry.     There  is  none  from  any  source  written  in 
German  until  we  come  to  the  last  half  of  the  four- 
teenth century,  when  the  father  of  German  history 
appears  in  Fritsche  Closener,  a  canon  of  Strassburg 
cathedral.     His  work  is  a  chronicle  relating  mainly 
to  Strassburg,  written  to  be  read  by  the  burghers  of 
the   city.     It   is   often  dry;    sometimes,    however, 
vivid  and  warm,  and  always  terse  and  clear.     He 
describes  the  terrible  pestilence  of  the  fourteenth 
century,  the  burnings  of  the  Jews  in  the  towns  along 
the  Rhine,  and,  in  general,  more  gloom  than  joy, 
reflecting  the  despondent  temper  of  his  time.     ' '  Two 
hundred  flagellants,"    he  says,    "brethren  of  the 
scourge,  came  in  1349  to  Strassburg.    They  marched 
into  the  town  two  and  two  abreast,  chanting  a  lam- 
entation, and  carrying  banners  and  lighted  candles, 
while  as  they  came  into  the  town  the  bells  of  the 
cathedral  were  tolled.    When  they  entered  a  church, 
they  first  all  kneeled  down  and  chanted  a  hymn. 
Then,  extending  their  arms  and  making  themselves 
so  many  likenesses  of  the  cross,  they  all  fell  at  once, 
with  a  loud  clapping  sound,  upon  the  pavement. 
Twice  a  day,  early  and  late,  they  publicly  scourged 
themselves  with  knotted  cords,  and  this  was  their 
fashion  of  doing  it :    The  bells  of  the  cathedral  were 
tolled  as  they  marched,  two  and  two  abreast,  out  of 
the  town  into  the  open  field.    There,  having  stripped 
themselves  to  the  waist,  they  lay  down  on  the  grass 
so  as  to  form  a  wide  circle,  and  each  brother,  by 
his  mode  of  lying  down,  confessed  the  chief  sin  of 
which  he  had  been  guilty.     Then  they  arose,  and 


DEVELOPMENT    OF   PROSE  143 

while  they  were  singing  the  brethren  went  around 
in  a  ring,  and  scourged  their  naked  backs  until  the 
blood  flowed  freely  from  many  of  them."1  Close- 
ner  farther  narrates  the  impression  made  by  the 
flagellants,  stating  facts  which  indicate  that  society 
was  weighed  down  by  deep  depression. 

The  work  of  Closener  was  continued  by  Konigs- 
hoven,  also  a  canon  of  the  cathedral.  More  inter- 
esting, however,  than  the  chroniclers  are  certain 
noble  men  whose  eloquent  words  addressed  to  the 
people,  —  often,  without  doubt,  from  the  cathedral 
pulpit,  —  have  in  part  survived  to  our  day.  No  in- 
strument employed  by  the  Church  of  Rome  has 
stood  in  worse  repute  than  the  order  of  Saint  Dom- 
inic ;  but  even  when  the  Dominicans  were  most 
active,  establishing  the  Inquisition,  and  persecuting 
with  most  intolerance  heretics,  some  of  the  noblest 
men  of  the  time  stood  within  their  ranks.  In  Italy, 
Savonarola  announced  political  and  religious  free- 
dom ;  and  in  Germany  the  men  came  from  their 
number  who  continued  the  work  of  Master  Eckhardt, 
the  pure  and  wise  spirit  who,  in  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury, founded  the  "Mystics."  Eckhardt  and  his 
followers  took  advantage  of  the  unfortunate  times 
to  lead,  so  far  as  they  could,  the  world  back  to 
spiritual  things.  They  held  the  biblical  stories  to 
be  symbols  within  which  a  finer  meaning  lurked. 
They  sought  union  with  God,  not  from  an  external 
grace,  arbitrarily  applied,  but  from  the  inner  power 
of  man  himself.  By  self-renunciation  they  sought 

1  Gostwick  and  Harrison :   Outlines  of  German  Literature. 


144  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

to  become  at  one  with  the  Deity,  and  in  their  as- 
piration were  carried  away  sometimes  into  extrava- 
gance. They  yearned  to  sink  themselves  in  the 
ocean  of  Divinity,  saw  things  in  visions  as  wonder- 
ful as  John  in  Patmos,  and  were  sometimes  thrown 
into  convulsions.  The  order  which  resulted  from 
their  teaching  was  called  "The  Friends  of  God;" 
they  sought  to  lead  men  to  a  purer  life,  without 
separation  from  the  Church. 

Most  interesting  among  "  The  Friends  of  God  " 
was  the  spiritual  hero,  Tauler,  born  at  Strassburg, 
probably  in  1290.  He  wandered  from  his  native 
city,  but  returned  again,  spending  there  his  most 
fruitful  years,  and  dying  in  1361.  The  order  re- 
garded him  as  their  inspired  master.  As  a  preacher 
he  was  nobly  eloquent ;  though  banned  by  the 
Church,  and  everywhere  in  danger  of  his  life,  he  was 
a  light  in  the  world.  His  followers  believed  him 
endowed  with  miraculous  power ;  Luther,  two  hun- 
dred years  later,  studied  him  ceaselessly ;  and  even 
now  men  of  the  widest  divergence  in  creed  are  at- 
tracted to  his  words  by  their  beautiful  spirit.  In 
his  sermons,  and  also  his  hymns,  which  were  full  of 
a  mystical  spirit,  Tauler  taught  that  man,  resigning 
his  personality,  must  sink  himself  in  God,  to  find 
himself  in  God  again.  Yet  his  manliness  kept  him 
from  the  sentimentalism  which  led  his  followers 
sometimes  into  unfortunate  extremes.  No  man  of 
his  age  did  a  nobler  work;  and  it  is  one  of  the 
finest  associations  of  the  Strassburg  cathedral  that  it 
must  sometimes  have  heard  his  words.  But  Tauler 
was  not  alone.  Though  the  ecclesiastics  were,  to  a 


DEVELOPMENT   OF   PROSE.  145 

large  extent,  sunk  in  ignorance  and  held  in  con- 
tempt, the  mendicant  orders,  full  of  sympathy  for 
the  people,  travelled  through  the  land,  preaching  now 
in  cathedrals,  now  before  chapels  in  outer  pulpits, 
now  on  a  mountain,  now  under  a  green  linden  in  the 
outskirts  of  a  village.  Berthold  of  Regensburg,  the 
most  famous  of  them,  sometimes  addressed  crowds 
of  many  thousands,  with  a  power  which  his  trans- 
mitted words  still  preserve.  The  name  of  Geiler  of 
Kaisersberg  brings  us  back  again  to  Strassburg. 
When  Tauler  had  been  dead  a  hundred  years,  this 
new  preacher  appears  in  the  places  that  had  once 
known  the  great  mystic, — to  some  extent  the  heir 
both  of  his  eloquence  and  worth.  He  was  buried, 
at  length,  beneath  the  pulpit  from  which  he  had 
spoken. 

The  class  of  nobles  —  who,  after  the  decline  of  the 
minnesong,  sank  below  all  refined  enjoyment  —  now 
and  then  furnished  a  representative  who  has  left 
some  record  of  himself.  Goetz  von  Berlichingen, 
close  upon  the  Reformation,  in  a  rude  narrative,  de- 
tails artlessly  his  freebooting  adventures  as  if  they 
were  innocent  pastime.  The  name  has  little  inter- 
est in  itself;  Gothe,  however,  making  use  of  the  ac- 
count, constructed,  long  afterward,  his  first  drama. 
A  worthier  type  was  Ulrich  von  Hutten,  the  pre- 
cursor, and  for  a  time  the  contemporary,  of  Luther. 
Though  mainly  known  for  his  Latin  writings,  at 
length  he  expressed  himself  boldly  in  his  mother 
tongue.  His  influence  was  important  in  the  world 
of  action  rather  than  of  letters.  The  Peasants'  War 
might  have  resulted  less  disastrously  had  he  lived  to 


146  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

guide  it.  It  was  in  its  political,  more  than  religious, 
aspect  that  he  valued  the  Reformation ;  and  could 
his  influence  have  remained,  the  movement  might 
have  become  broader  and  more  beneficent.  The 
cause  lost,  however,  not  only  a  strong  arm,  but  an 
influential  pen,  when  the  stout  knight  too  early 
found  his  grave  in  the  island  of  Ufenau,  in  the  lake 
of  Zurich. 

At  the  other  end  of  the  social  scale  the  peasantry 
in  these  times  first  find  a  voice  in  the  collection  of 
rude  jokes  attributed  to  Tyll  Eulenspiegel,  a  char- 
acter who  may  have  had  a  real  existence.  The  jests 
were  collected  no  one  can  say  precisely  when  or 
how ;  their  popularity  was  immense,  and  they  re- 
flect perfectly  the  tastes  and  manners  of  the  class 
among  which  they  took  their  origin. 

From  the  close  of  the  thirteenth  century  to  the 
time  of  Luther,  German  prose  literature  is  but 
meagre.  As  will  be  presently  seen,  in  poetry  also 
the  accomplishment  is  no  more  respectable.  It 
must  not  be  supposed  that  the  minds  of  men  had 
ceased  to  be  active.  On  a  pedestal  in  a  square  of 
the  city  of  Frankfort  stand  three  figures,  in  mediae- 
val dress,  on  the  spot  where  they  labored,  the  men 
among  whom  is  to  be  divided  the  credit  of  the  in- 
vention, — perhaps  the  most  important  ever  made,  — 
Faust,  Gutenberg,  and  Scheffer.  In  Mainz  the 
introduction  of  printing  has  a  similar  commemora- 
tion ;  and  Strassburg,  again,  with  as  good  grounds 
probably  as  the  rival  cities,  claims  to  be  the  birth- 
place of  the  great  art,  and  honors  its  parentage  in 
superb  bronze.  In  each  city  the  houses  are  stand- 


DEVELOPMENT   OF   PROSE.  147 

ing  which  one  or  all  of  the  men  must  have  entered, 
which  echoed  to  the  rattle  of  the  early  printing- 
presses.  We  cannot  at  all  despise  an  age  when  the 
human  mind  so  pressed  for  utterance  that  the 
printing-press  was  forced  into  being,  and  after  its 
coming  was  kept  so  busy.  In  these  years  the 
revival  of  learning — beginning  in  Italy — was  pass- 
ing into  the  north  of  Europe,  and  many  a  patient 
scholastic  was  perplexing  himself  with  fine-spun 
speculations,  or  disputing  in  the  newly-founded 
universities  upon  subtleties  ingeniously  absurd. 
Here  and  there  were  springing  up  the  universi- 
ties,— as  Paris,  Heidelberg,  Prague,  Padua,  Sa- 
lerno. From  all  countries  youths  desirous  of  learn- 
ing flocked  to  these  ;  a  common  language  became  a 
necessity ;  hence  Latin  as  the  vernacular  of  the 
learned  world.  It  was  inevitable  and  sad  that  in 
this  way  the  people  were  shut  out  from  culture. 
In  Germany  the  scholars  and  thinkers  turned  their 
backs  upon  the  mother  tongue,  which  came  to  be 
considered  as  fit  only  for  vulgar  uses.  The  songs 
of  the  Minnesingers,  the  great  chivalric  and  heroic 
epics,  were  forgotten*;  the  parchments  which  con- 
tained them  vanished  under  accumulating  dust  in 
the  libraries,  not  to  be  disentombed  until  our  own 
day.  In  the  estimation  of  the  scholars,  Latin  alone 
was  the  language  for  literature,  who  reserved  Ger- 
man only  for  the  servant  and  the  beast.  Of  this 
mediaeval  Latin  literature,  emanating  from  German 
brains,  there  is  enough  and  to  spare.  There 
are  many  illustrious  names  ;  since,  however,  they 
scorned  their  native  speech,  he  who  tells  the  story 


148  GERMAN   LITERATURE. 

of  German  literature  can  make  no  account  of 
them. 

The  invention  of  printing  has  not  been  an  un- 
mixed benefit  to  the  world  ;  its  effect  upon  poetry 
has  been  to  injure  it.  The  death  of  all  true  and 
living  poetry,  it  has  been  said,1  must  come  when  it 
ceases  to  be  recited.  Neither  Iliad  nor  Odyssey, 
neither  Nibelungen  Lied  nor  Gudrun,  could  have 
come  to  pass  in  a  time  of  printers.  The  perishing 
of  heroic  poetry  may  be  said  to  take  place  in  pro- 
portion to  the  spread  of  the  press.  A  man  may  be 
sometimes  found  who  can  read  silently  a  score  of 
music,  and  through  power  of  imagination  make  so 
real  to  himself  the  tones  that  he  scarcely  needs  to 
touch  the  instrument.  Such  cases  are,  however, 
rare.  Dumb  music  is  an  anomaly;  if  instrument 
and  voice  were  silent,  the  world  would  know  little 
of  melody.  It  is  somewhat  similar  with  poetry. 
In  a  silent  reading  of  a  poem  we  make  partly  real 
to  ourselves,  by  an  effort  of  the  imagination,  the 
harmony  which  it  possesses ;  but  how  much  more 
vivid  is  the  realization  if  to  the  rhyme  of  the  poet 
the  beauty  of  a  voice  is  lent !  In  the  old  day  the 
poem  became  known  only  through  the  chant  of  the 
minstrel.  "We  receive  it  now  through  the  eye,  — the 
easier,  but  infinitely  poorer,  method  ;  bereft  thus  of 
its  most  important  charm,  it  becomes  less  dear  to 
the  souls  of  men. 

The  only  genuine  poetry  of  the  times  to  which 
we  have  now  come  is  that  of  the  volks-lied,  or  ballad, 


1  Vilmar. 


DEVELOPMENT   OF  PROSE.  149 

which  sprung  up,  in  the  ancient  way,  among  those 
who  could  neither  read  nor  write.  Of  these  fine 
old  songs,  many,  through  the  influence  of  Herder, 
Gothe,  Burger,  and  Uhland,  have  become  known 
and  appreciated.  The  Boy's  Wonder-Horn  of 
Achim  von  Arnim  is  a  collection  of  them,  in  part 
modernized,  but  with  the  primitive  aroma  not 
banished. 

The  volks-lied,  however,  comprises  but  a  small 
part  of  the  verse  that  was  now  written.  Since  the 
cities  had  displaced  the  courts  as  centres  of  culture, 
the  poetry,  for  the  most  part,  was  designed  to  suit 
the  burghers,  whose  earnest  taste  sought  teaching 
and  admonition,  rather  than  amusement.  In  par- 
ticular the  satire  flourished,  since  the  world  was 
filled  with  a  sense  of  its  un worthiness,  —  a  com- 
punction of  conscience  due  in  great  part  to  the 
calamitous  times,  which  seemed  to  have  been  sent 
for  a  punishment.  As  so  often  in  dealing  with  this 
period,  for  the  memorable  names  we  go  to  Strass- 
burg.  Sebastian  Brant,  town  clerk  of  the  city,  in 
the  fifteenth  century  wrote  a  poem  called  the  "  Ship 
of  Fools,"  in  which,  a  party  of  fools  being  repre- 
sented as  setting  sail  from  Strassburg  down  the 
Rhine,  an  opportunity  is  given  for  the  delineation 
of  various  species  of  folly.  To  us  the  poem  is  most 
tedious,  but  its  popularity  in  its  time  was  un- 
bounded,—  Geiler  of  Kaisersberg  preaching  more 
than  one  hundred  sermons  on  texts  taken  from  its 
lines.  Brant  was  an  exemplary  teacher  and  scholar, 
but  'his  contemporary,  Thomas  Murner,  was  a 
spirit  far  wilder,  and  at  the  same  time  more  inter- 


150  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

esting.  Born  within  the  shadow  of  the  newly- 
finished  spire,  Strassburg  nourished  him  also  ;  but 
he  became  a  wandering  monk.  Traversing  Germany 
as  a  buffoon-preacher,  ragged,  rejected  from  cities 
that  were  full  of  the  spirit  of  the  Reformation,  of  un- 
flinching courage,  —  or  impudence,  —  he  lashed  at 
first  his  fellow-monks  with  vituperation,  then  flung 
scorn  upon  Luther,  whom  he  sharply  and  insolently 
scourged  as  he  rose  into  fame.  His  best  satire  — 
the  best  of  the  time  —  is  called,  "Of  the  Great 
Lutheran  Fool,  as  Dr.  Murner  has  Exorcised  Him." 
The  Heldenbuch  of  Caspar  von  der  Roen  echoes  the 
songs  of  a  past  time,  giving  them  in  elaborations 
of  inferior  merit.  Far  better  is  a  new  version  of 
Reynard  the  Fox. 

The  beginning  of  the  German  drama  is  shrouded 
in  darkness ;  the  first  name  clearly  associated  with 
its  history  is  that  of  Hroswitha,  a  nun  of  the 
abbey  of  Gandersheim,  who,  in  the  tenth  cen- 
tury, adapted  Latin  plays  for  performance  in  the 
monastery.  As  the  light  grows  clearer,  it  is  the 
Church  which  appears  as  the  especial  patron  of 
the  drama.  The  monks  —  partly  with  the  idea  of 
instructing  the  people,  partly  to  amuse  them  — 
turned  the  Bible  history,  from  Genesis  to  Revela- 
tion, into  miracle-plays,  performing  them  more 
frequently  than  not  in  the  cathedrals,  upon  a  tow- 
ering, three-storied  stage,  representing  Heaven, 
Earth,  and  Hell.  With  the  biblical  stories  were 
often  combined  Rabbinical  tales,  —  indeed,  material 
from  any  source.  With  incongruity  —  which  must 
be  regarded  as  artlessness,  and  not  intentional 


DEVELOPMENT   OF   PROSE.  151 

irreverence  —  the  sacred  and  profane  are  often 
thrust  into  the  rudest  contact.  Deity  and  angels 
figure  side  by  side  with  men  and  brutes,  and  the 
devil  is  the  butt  of  all.  Little  by  little,  in  the  four- 
teenth century,  a  secular  drama  —  less  profane  than 
the  so-called  sacred  drama  —  takes  its  rise ;  Hans 
Folz,  a  barber,  and  Hans  Rosenblut,  sometimes 
called  the  first  of  the  Mastersingers,  writing  their 
wild  and  coarse1  Shrove  Tuesday  plays.  In  con- 
nection with  the  secular  drama  of  the  period,  these 
remain  the  best-known  names. 

Again,  in  the  universities  and  schools  the  students 
performed  sometimes  classic  works,  sometimes  plays 
written  by  themselves  or  their  teachers .  At  Worms , 
I  remember,  in  the  Luther  memorial,  the  superb  fig- 
ure of  Reuchlin  on  one  of  the  outer  corners.  One 
or  two  of  the  statues  may  be  somewhat  grander,  but 
no  other  seemed  to  me  so  handsome,  as  it  stood  co- 
lossal on  its  pillar,  the  scholar's  gown  falling  from 
the  stately  shoulders,  and  the  face  so  fine  there  in 
the  bronze ,  under  the  abundant  hair  and  cap .  Reuch- 
lin is  said  to  be  the  proper  founder  of  the  Ger- 
man drama.  Before  his  time  there  had  been,  to  be 
sure,  miracle-plays,  and  perhaps  things  of  a  differ- 
ent sort.  The  German  literary  historians,  however, 
make  it  an  era  when  Reuchlin  came  as  professor  to 
Heidelberg,  and  in  1497  set  up  a  stage,  with  stu- 
dents for  actors,  at  the  house  of  Johann,  Kammerer 
von  Dalberg.  He  wrote  his  plays  in  Latin.  Each 
act,  probably,  was  prefaced  by  a  synopsis  in  Ger- 


1  Fast-nacht  Spiele. 


152  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

man,  and  soon  translations  came  into  vogue,  and 
were  performed  as  well.  On  that  little  strip  of  level 
which  the  crags  and  the  Neckar  make  so  narrow,  col- 
lected then,  as  now,  a  fair  concourse  of  bounding 
youth.  One  can  easily  fancy  how,  when  the  proto- 
types of  the  trim  Burschen  of  to-day  stepped  out  in 
their  representation,  the  applause  sounded  across  to 
the  vineyards  about  the  Heiligenberg  and  Hirsch- 
gasse,  and  how  now  and  then  a  knight  and  a  dame 
from  the  court  of  the  Kurfiirst  came  down  the 
Schlossberg  to  see  it  all.  What  Keuchlin  began, 
came  by  no  means  to  a  speedy  end.  In  the  Jesuit 
seminaries  in  Germany,  in  Italy  too,  and  elsewhere, 
as  the  Reformation  came  on,  I  find  the  boys  were 
acting  plays.  This  feature  in  the  school  was  held 
out  as  an  attraction  to  win  students  ;  and  in  Prague 
the  fathers  themselves  wrote  dramas  to  satirize  the 
Protestants,  introducing  Luther  as  the  comic  figure. 
But  what  occurred  in  the  Protestant  world  was  more 
noteworthy.  As  the  choral  singing  of  the  school- 
boys affected,  in  an  important  way,  the  development 
of  music,  so  the  school-plays  had  much  to  do  with 
the  development  of  the  drama.  Gervinus  says  that 
for  a  century  or  two  it  was  the  schools  and  univer- 
sities that  remained  true  to  a  tolerably  high  standard, 
while  in  the  world  at  large  all  nobler  ideals  were 
under  eclipse.  It  was  jocund  Luther  himself  who 
took  it  under  his  especial  sanction,  as  he  did  the 
fiddle  and  the  dance,  in  his  sweet  large-heartedness 
finding  scriptural  precedents  for  it,  and  encourag- 
ing the  youths  who  came  trooping  to  Wittenberg  to 
relieve  their  wrestling  with  Aristotle  and  the  dreary 


DEVELOPMENT   OF   PROSE.  153 

controversy  with  an  occasional  play.  Melancthon 
too  gave  the  practice  encouragement,  until  not  only 
Wittenberg,  but  the  schools  of  Saxony  in  general, 
and  Thuringia,  whose  hills  were  in  sight,  surpassed 
all  the  countries  of  Germany  in  their  attention  to 
plays.  In  Leipsig,  Erfurt,  and  Magdeburg  comedies 
were  regularly  represented  before  the  school-mas- 
ters. But  it  was  at  the  University  of  Strassburg, 
even  at  the  time  when  the  unsmiling  Calvin  was 
seeking  asylum  there,  that  the  dramatic  life  of  the 
German  seminaries  found  a  splendid  culmination. 
Yearly  in  the  academic  theatre  took  place  a  series 
of  representations,  by  students,  of  marvellous  pomp 
and  elaboration. 

The  school  and  college-plays  were  of  various  char- 
acter. Sometimes  they  were  from  Terence,  Plautus, 
or  Aristophanes ;  sometimes  modifications  of  the 
ancient  mysteries,  meant  to  enforce  the  evangelical 
theology ;  sometimes  comedies  full  of  the  contem- 
porary life.  There  are  several  men  that  have  earned 
mention  in  the  history  of  German  literature  by 
writing  plays  for  students.  The  representations  be- 
came a  principal  means  for  celebrating  great,  occa- 
sions. If  special  honor  was  to  be  done  to  a  festival, 
or  a  princely  visit  was  expected,  the  market-place, 
the  Rathhaus,  or  the  church  was  prepared,  and  it 
was  the  professor's  or  the  school-master's  duty  to 
direct  the  boys  in  their  performance  of  a  play.  We 
get  glimpses  in  the  chronicles  of  the  circumstances 
under  which  the  representations  took  place.  The 
magistrates — even  the  courts — lent  brilliant  dresses. 
One  old  writer  laments  that  the  ignorant  people 


154  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

have  so  little  sense  for  arts  of  this  kind.  "  Often 
tumult  and  mocking  are  heard,  for  it  is  the  greatest 
joy  to  the  rabble  if  the  spectators  fall  down  through 
broken  benches."  The  old  three-storied  stage  of 
the  mysteries  was  often  retained,  with  Heaven  above, 
Earth  in  the  middle  space,  and  Hell  below,  where, 
according  to  the  stage  direction  of  the  "Golden 
Legend,"  "the  devils  walked  about  and  made  a 
great  noise."  Lazarus  is  described  as  represented 
in  the  sixteenth  century,  before  a  hotel,  before 
which  sat  the  rich  man  carousing,  while  Abraham, 
in  a  parson's  coat,  looked  out  of  an  upper  win- 
dow. This  rudeness,  however,  belongs  rather  to 
the  "  Volks-comodie  "  than  the  "  Schul-comodie," 
whose  adjuncts  were  generally  far  more  rational,  and 
sometimes  even  brilliant, — as  in  the  Strassburg  rep- 
resentations. It  was  only  in  the  seminaries  that  art 
was  preserved  from  utter  decay.  One  may  trace 
the  Schul-comodie  until  far  down  in  the  eighteenth 
century,  and  in  the  last  mention  I  find  of  it  appears 
an  interesting  figure.  In  1780,  at  the  military  school 
in  Stuttgard,  the  birthday  of  the  Duke  of  Wurtem- 
berg  .was  celebrated  by  a  performance  of  Gothe's 
' '  Clavigo . ' '  The  leading  part  was  taken  by  a  youth 
of  twenty-one,  with  high  cheek-bones,  a  broad,  low 
Greek  brow,  above  straight  eye-brows,  a  prominent 
nose,  and  lips  nervous  with  an  extraordinary  energy. 
The  German  narrator  says  he  played  the  part 
"abominably,  —  shrieking,  roaring,  unmannerly  to  a 
laughable  degree."  It  was  the  young  Schiller,  wild 
as  a  Pythoness  upon  her  tripod,  with  the  "Rob- 
bers," which  became  famous  in  the  following  year. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE    MASTERSINGERS. 

Let  us  turn  now  to  the  poetry  which,  if  it  is  not 
the  best  of  this  period  of  decline,  is  at  any  rate  the 
most  characteristic, — the  work  of  the  Mastersingers. 
When  the  race  of  Minnesingers  came  to  an  end,  they 
were  not  without  heirs.  Men  of  knightly  station  110 
longer  rode  from  castle  to  castle  prepared  to  sing, 
with  lute  in  hand,  the  praises  of  ladies.  There  were, 
however,  wandering  minstrels,  whose  merit  had  be- 
come very  inferior,  and  whose  repute  was  of  the 
worst.  At  tournaments  the  rough  play  of  arms 
was  sometimes  interrupted  by  songs  sung  by  the 
heralds  or  their  assistants.1  At  the  festivals  of  the 
peasants  there  were  poets  who,  in  a  similar  way, 
performed  a  humbler  office.2  At  weddings,  bap- 
tisms, and  other  family  festivals  in  the  cities,  espe- 
cially Nuremberg,  poets,  dressed  in  white  cloaks  and 
decorated  with  badges  of  silver,3  took  part  in  the 
celebration.  At  the  end  of  the  thirteenth  century, '- 
among  the  last  of  the  Minnesingers,  lived  Heinrich 
Frauenlob,  a  poet  already  mentioned.  He  has  all 
the  faults  of  a  time  of  decay, — an  overweening  opin- 


1  Wappendichter. 

2  Pritschenmeister. 

3  Spruchsprecher. 


156  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

ion  of  himself,  hopelessness  with  respect  to  the 
world,  complaint  of  misappreciation,  —  a  fantastic, 
hair-splitting  over-refinement,  instead  of  the  simple, 
unconscious  nature  of  poets  like  Walther  von  der 
Vogelweide.  From  some  real  or  fancied  praise  of 
women,  from  which  perhaps  came  his  name,  he  was 
held  by  them  in  high  honor.  In  the  old  cathedral  of 
Mainz,  where  his  grave  is  shown,  a  bass-relief  repre- 
sents the  poet's  coffin  borne  on  the  shoulders  of 
women.  Tradition  says  he  was  really  so  buried,  and 
libations  of  wine  so  liberally  poured  out  that  the 
church  swam  with  it.  Nothing  that  Frauenlob  has 
left  justifies  such  especial  observances  in  his  honor. 
He  it  was  who,  by  establishing  some  sort  of  a  school 
in  which  men  of  the  higher  class  were  taught  the 
rules  of  singing  and  poetry,  is  said  to  stand  at  the 
transition  point  where  the  class  of  noble  minstrels 
pass  over  into  the  Mastersingers,  although  certain 
unauthenticated  statements  give  an  earlier  date. 

The  disposition  to  write  and  sing  developed  into  a 
strange  passion  among  the  handicraftsmen  of  the 
towns,  spreading  from  city  to  city  until  there  was 
scarcely  one  not  affected  by  it;  in  Southern  Ger- 
many its  manifestations  were  especially  numerous 
and  grotesque.  Although  the  poetry  of  the  Minne- 
singers shades  into  that  of  the  Mastersingers  by  im- 
perceptible gradations,  some  points  of  contrast  may 
be  noticed  :  the  former  was  cultivated  by  the  nobles, 
and  became  a  profession  ;  the  latter  by  burghers  and 
their  workmen,  and  was  only  a  curious  form  of 
amusement ;  in  the  minnelieder  the  greatest  free- 
dom prevailed  as  to  subject  and  form ;  the  Master- 


THE  MASTERSINGERS.  157 

singers,  however,  worked  according  to  very  definite 
laws.  In  each  school  these  laws  were  carefully  writ- 
ten down ;  although  there  was  rarely  formal  con- 
nection between  the  Mastersingers  of  different  cities, 
the  rules  in  each  case  varied  but  little  ;  the  singers 
went  from  city  to  city,  engaging  in  contests  without 
suffering  embarrassment.  The  collection  of  laws 
was  called  the  "  Tabulatur."  Three  "  Merker,"  or 
umpires,  were  presidents  in  each  school,  who  at  fes- 
tivals sat  upon  a  stage,  with  a  Bible  close  at  hand. 
The  churches  were  the  most  frequent  places  of  as- 
sembling ;  sometimes  the  festival  took  place  in  the 
town  hall,  sometimes  in  the  open  air.  In  Wagner's 
opera  of  the  "  Mastersingers,"  in  which  the  old  life 
is  closely  reproduced,  the  Mastersingers  are  repre- 
sented as  marching  in  procession  into  the  church  of 
Saint  Katherine,  in  Nuremberg,  where  a  contest 
takes  place  in  which  the  victor  is  to  receive  the  hand 
of  the  beautiful  daughter  of  a  goldsmith.  Again,  a 
festival  takes  place  in  a  broad  meadow  in  the  out- 
skirts of  the  city,  the  minstrels  and  the  trade-guilds 
entering  to  a  glorious  march.  The  shoemakers  sing 
a  song  in  honor  of  Saint  Crispin,  who  stole  leather 
from  the  rich  to  make  shoes  for  the  poor  ;  the  tailors 
celebrate  a  hero  of  their  trade  who,  during  a  siege, 
sewing  himself  up  in  goat-skins,  performed  such 
antics  on  the  city  walls  that  the  frightened  enemy 
withdrew.  At  length  the  handsome  hero  of  the 
piece  sings  his  way  to  victory,  and  maid  and  lover 
are  happily  united.1 


1  The  Nation. 


158  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

The  Mastersingers  cared  little  or  nothing  for  the 
inner  import  of  their  songs,  giving  an  absurd  atten- 
tion to  the  outward  form.  In  the  schools  there 
were  various  grades,  as  in  freemasonry.  Those 
who  were  successful  had  the  privilege  of  decking 
themselves  magnificently  in  the  paraphernalia  of  the 
order.  A  silver  chain,  with  a  badge  representing 
King  David,  adorned  the  neck;  wreaths  of  silk 
were  placed  upon  the  head.  In  the  richer  cities 
the  decorations  were  splendid,  and  to  have  gained 
them  was  the  greatest  of  honors,  —  not  alone  to  the 
individual,  but  to  his  family  and  guild  ;  the  officials 
of  the  order  nodded  approval,  and  the  throng  of 
burghers  and  their  wives  present  gave  the  heartiest 
applause.  Some  of  the  names  of  favorite  airs  that 
have  come  down  to  us  are  very  fantastic  : l  "  The 
Striped-saffron  Flower-tune  of  Hans  Findeisen," 
"  The  English  Tin-tune  of  Caspar  Enderles,"  "  The 
Blood-gleaming  Wire-tune  of  Jobst  Zolner,'/  "  The 
Many-colored  Coat-tune  of  F.  Fromer."  The  taste 
is  grotesque  enough,  yet  it  possessed  the  world 
wonderfully.  The  shoemaker  would  leave  his  awl 
and  waxed-end,  the  tailor  hang  up  his  shears,  the 
blacksmith  forsake  hammer  and  anvil,  —  all  listen- 
ing to,  or  taking  part  in,  the  curious  stupidity. 
Developing  in  obscure  ways,  the  mastersinging  was 
at  the  height  of  its  popularity  in  the  century  of  the 
^Reformation ;  from  that  time  it  declined,  lingering, 


1  Die  gestreift-Safran-Blumleinweis  Hans  Findeisens,  die  Eng- 
lische-Zinnweis  Kaspars  Enderles,  die  blut-gl'anzende  Drathweis 
Jobst  Zolners,  die  Vielfarb-Rockweis  F.  Fromers. 


THE   MASTERSINOERS.  159 

however,  into  our  own  age.  As  late  as  1770  a  fes- 
tival was  held  at  Nuremberg ;  at  Ulm,  as  late  as 
1838,  four  old  masters  were  still  living.  These  re- 
signed, in  that  year,  their  tabulatur  and  parapher- 
nalia to  the  Lieder-Kranz,  and  announced  that  the 
long  succession  of  Mastersingers  had  come  to  an 
end. 

The  Mastersingers  did  much  good,  though  not  in 
ways  that  they  intended.  It  is  to  be  noticed  that 
precisely  those  cities  in  which  they  most  nourished 
were  the  cities  which  most  zealously  accepted  the 
Reformation.  We  may  be  sure  it  was  not  a  chance 
coincidence.  The  mastersinging  indicated  a  certain 
intellectual  activity.  The  Bible,  moreover,  was 
always  close  by  the  umpires  when  they  were  dis- 
charging their  office ;  every  member  of  a  master- 
singing  guild  must  have  a  reputation  for  honesty 
and  piety,  and  to  this  was  due  in  part  the  superior 
morality  which  distinguished  the  citizen  from  the 
noble.  The  number  of  names  of  individuals  is 
very  small  which  even  the  elaborate  accounts  have 
thought  it  worth  while  to  preserve  from  among  the 
crowd  of  Mastersingers.  Of  these  I  need  to  con- 
sider only  one, —  and  that  one  rather  for  what  he 
did  outside  of  mastersinging  than  for  the  work  in 
which  he  conformed  to  the  Tabulatur.  He  seems 
indeed  to  have  felt  himself  its  triviality,  and  based 
his  title  to  fame  on  other  foundations. 

Of  the  cities  honorably  prominent,  in  the  fifteenth 
and  sixteenth  centuries,  as  seats  of  blooming  trade, 
and  strong  and  brilliant  life  of  every  kind,  no  one 
equals  Nuremberg.  It  stood,  full  of  thrift  and  cul- 


160  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

ture,  with  an  admirable  constitution.  It  produced 
and  retained  within  its  bounds  many  men  of  great 
energy  and  genius,  and  knew  also  how  to  attract 
ability  from  abroad, — an  art  which  republics  have 
seldom  understood.  It  was  great  in  commerce  and 
manufactures,  in  inventions,  science,  and  art.  It 
was  the  centre  and  high-school  of  the  mastersong,  — 
for  more  than  one  hundred  years  the  main  cradle 
of  the  German  drama.  It  included  within  its  walls 
such  numbers  of  distinguished  men  that  not  only 
could  no  German  city  compare  with  it,  but  many 
countries  of  large  extent  were  surpassed,  and  the 
great  Italian  cities  were  only  doubtfully  superior.1 
Hans  Sachs  was  born  in  1494,  the  son  of  a  tailor 
in  Nuremberg.  From  his  seventh  to  his  fifteenth 
year  he  was  a  pupil  in  a  Latin  school ;  at  seventeen, 
as  an  apprentice,  he  began  his  wandering,  visiting 
with  interest  the  mastersinging  festivals  wherever 
they  occurred,  and  writing  at  Munich  his  first  poems. 
As  life  went  forward  he  developed  into  a  thrifty 
citizen,  becoming  the  father  of  seven  children,  all  of 
whom  he  survived.  With  all  his  business  activity, 
he  studied  diligently,  and,  with  astonishing  fecun- 
dity, wrote  six  thousand  and  forty-eight  separate 
pieces,  forming  thirty-four  solid  folio  volumes  of 
manuscript.2  His  authority  in  his  time  was  very 
great,  and  used  without  fear  or  favor  in  behalf  of 
the  Reformation,  which  was  in  full  progress  as  he 
came  forward  into  manhood.  He  had  great  knowl- 


1  Gervinus. 
»  Koberstein. 


THE   MASTERSINGERS.  161 

edge  of  the  world,  and  was  familiar,  besides,  with  all 
the  literature  of  his  time,  so  far  as  it  had  been  in- 
trusted to  books.  He  was  well  read  in  history  and 
mythology,  knew  the  Teutonic  and  Celtic  legends, 
and  frequently  refers  to  the  Italian  writers,  who, 
just  before,  had  made  their  country  famous.  His 
poems  are  upon  all  possible  subjects,  and  of  the 
most  various  kinds,  —  the  drama,  the  lyric,  the 
satire,  receiving  from  him  especial  favor.  His  best 
works  are  those  in  which  he  represents  the  burgher 
life,  in  the  midst  of  which  he  lived.  His  master- 
songs  are  no  better  than  those  of  his  contempora- 
ries,—  a  worthlessness  of  which  he  seems  himself 
to  have  been  conscious,  —  for  although  they  com- 
prised by  far  the  larger  number  of  the  pieces  that 
he  wrote,  from  the  collection  of  his  poems  which 
he  himself  prepared  they  were  excluded.  His  ear- 
nest pieces  have  less  interest  than  those  of  a  whim- 
sical, comical  character. 

Hans  Sachs  gradually  sank  in  the  estimation  of 
the  world  until  he  was  held  in  utter  contempt. 
Gothe  and  Wieland,  however,  brought  him  again 
into  favor,  and  he  is  now  highly  esteemed  as  one  of 
the  bravest  and  worthiest  of  the  figures  that  stood 
by  the  side  of  Luther.  He  leads  us  into  the  midst 
of  soldiers,  peasants,  tradesmen,  knights,  gypsies, 
priests,  and  scholars  ;  he  points  out  their  follies  ; 
we  hear  his  voice,  meanwhile,  admonishing  them  to 
temperance  and  morality.  Although  reproving,  he 
has  a  hearty  enjoyment  of  life,  takes  the  world's 
merry  tricks  in  good  part,  and  when  the  crowd  is  at 
cross-purposes,  with  cheerfulness  and  prudence  tries 


162  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

to  reconcile  them.  His  pieces  are  often  tediously 
prolix,  and  of  weak  wit,  but  all  the  honorable  char- 
acteristics of  the  German  middle  class — the  sturdy 
mechanic  virtues,  public  spirit,  honesty,  common 
sense,  doughty  moral  worth  of  every  kind  —  speak 
out  of  every  tone  and  thought.1  In  the  pieces  now 
to  be  quoted  there  is  a  touch  of  irreverence,  judg- 
ing by  our  standards.  To  omit  it,  however,  would 
be  dispensing  with  something  most  characteristic  of 
the  man  and  the  time.  It  is  what  we  see  in  the 
miracle-plays,  and  is  to  be  considered  as  the  naivete 
of  child-like  souls,  rather  than  as  intentional  disre- 
spect toward  what  should  be  held  sacred. 

THE    TAILOR   AND    THE    FLAG.2 

There  was  once  a  tailor  in  Strassburg  who  was  a 
famous  workman.  He  saw,  one  night,  the  devil, 
holding  in  his  hand  a  flag  thirty  yards  long,  made 
out  of  the  patches,  of  all  materials  and  colors,  which 
the  tailor  had  stolen  from  the  cloth  of  his  customers. 
The  frightened  man  cried  out,  tore  his  hair,  and 
turned  to  the  wall;  the  devil  vanished,  and  the 
tailor  was  restored  to  himself  by  being  sprinkled 
with  holy  water.  Soon  the  sick  man  could  sit  up 
in  bed  ;  he  told  the  attendants  the  story,  and  begro-ed 

J   '  t>O 

them,  whenever  he  cut  a  garment  thereafter,  to  re- 
mind him  of  the  devil  and  the  flag.  The  tailor 
recovered;  his  attendants  reminded  him  faithfully 
of  the  vision,  which  he  bore  thankfully  for  about  a 


1  Gervinus. 

2  Bibliothek  der  deutscher  Klassiker. 


THE   MASTERSINGERS,  163 

month  ;  but  one  day  he  was  cutting  a  garment  for  a 
lady  from  a  rich  fabric.  The  admonition  was  given, 
but  the  tailor  replied  that  he  did  not  remember  to 
have  seen  that  particular  color  in  the  devil's  flag, 
and  appropriated  a  piece.  At  length  the  tailor  died, 
and  came  before  the  door  of  Heaven.  Saint  Peter 
asks  who  and  what  he  is,  and,  upon  his  reply,  re- 
marks that  for  many  years  no  tailor  has  come  to 
Heaven,  and  hesitates  about  admitting  him.  The 
tailor  pleads  that  he  is  very  cold.  "  Let  me  come 
in  and  warm  myself.  I'll  only  sit  behind  the  stove 
an  hour  or  two,  and  then  go."  The  pitying  saint  at 
length  admits  him,  and  the  tailor  curls  down  behind 
the  stove.  Word  comes,  meanwhile,  that  a  pious 
old  priest  is  going  to  die.  At  once  the  Lord,  with 
all  the  heavenly  host,  hastily  sweeps  down  to  the 
earth  to  conduct  worthily  to  Heaven  the  soul  of 
the  good  pastor  of  Vilzhoven.  The  tailor  takes  the 
opportunity  to  creep  out  and  view  the  place.  When 
he  comes  to  the  throne  of  the  Lord,  he  audaciously 
seats  himself  upon  it,  and  enjoys  the  fine  view, 
observing  what  is  happening  among  all  nations.  At 
length  he  sees  a  poor  woman  hanging  out  on  a 
hedge  the  clothes  of  herself  and  children,  which 
she  has  just  washed.  As  she  goes  away  a  rich 
woman  steals  a  handkerchief  from  the  hedge  and 
goes  off  with  it,  at  which  dishonesty  the  tailor  is  so 
incensed  that  he  takes  in  both  hands  the  Lord's 
footstool,  throws  it  at  the  woman,  and  cripples  her 
so  that  she  is  hump-backed  all  her  life  after.  Now 
the  host  of  Heaven  is  heard  returning,  whereupon 
the  tailor  creeps  again  behind  the  stove.  As  the 


164  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

Lord  resumes  His  seat  He  misses  His  footstool,  and 
enquires  of  Saint  Peter  what  can  have  become  of  it. 
Peter  charges  the  tailor  with  the  theft,  who  is  forth- 
with hunted  out  and  placed  on  trial.  The  trembling 
culprit  tries  to  excuse  himself  by  telling  the  story 
of  the  theft  of  the  handkerchief.  "O  tailor, 
tailor!"  cries  the  Lord,  "  if,  while  you  lived,  I 
had  thrown  my  footstool  at  you  every  time  you 
stole  anything,  do  you  think  there  would  have  been 
a  tile  left  in  your  house?  " 

Hans  Sachs,  in  several  pieces,  touches  upon  the 
vices  of  the  soldiery.  The  devil,  he  says,  once 
heard  about  the  landsknechts  and  sent  out  Beelze- 
bub to  bring  him  in  a  pair,  promising  to  make  a 
prince  of  him  if  he  succeeded.  Beelzebub  goes  to  a 
tavern,  at  which  a  party  of  landsknechts  are  revel- 
ling, and  hides  behind  a  stove,  watching  his  chance. 
He  is  so  terrified  at  their  conduct  and  language  that 
he  escapes,  much  frightened,  out  of  the  chimney, 
and  goes  home  in  great  haste.  To  the  devil's  query 
if  he  has  brought  any  soldiers  back  with  him,  he 
answers  that,  so  far  from  doing  so,  he  has  barely 
been  able  to  return  himself;  that  they  are  wilder 
than  the  demons  themselves,  "and  if  they  were 
among  us,  Hell  would  soon  be  too  narrow."  "  If 
that  is  true,"  says  the  devil,  "  we  will  never  meddle 
with  them  any  more." 

Another  characteristic  piece  of  Hans  Sachs  is  the 
story  of  Saint  Peter  and  the  goat.  Saint  Peter  was 
perplexed  with  the  prevalence  of  injustice  in  the 
world,  and  thought  he  could  make  affairs  better  if 
he  were  permitted  to  manage  them.  He  frankly 


THE    MASTERSINGERS.  165 

confesses  his  idea  to  the  Lord.  Meanwhile  a  peasant 
girl  appears,  complaining  that  she  must  do  a  hard 
day's  work,  and  at  the  same  time  keep  in  order  a 
frolicsome  young  goat.  "  Now,"  said  the  Lord  to 
Peter,  "  you  must  have  pity  on  this  girl,  and  take 
care  of  her  goat.  That  will  serve  as  an  introduction 
for  you  to  the  management  of  the  universe."  Peter 
undertakes  the  goat,  and  finds  quite  enough  to  do. 

The  young  goat  had  a  playful  mind, 
And  never  liked  to  be  confined ; 
The  apostle,  at  a  killing  pace, 
Followed  the  goat  in  desperate  chase; 
Over  the  hills  and  among  the  briars 
The  goat  runs  on,  and  never  tires, 
While  Peter,  behind,  on  the  grassy  plain, 
Runs  on,  panting  and  sighing  in  vain. 
All  day,  beneath  the  scorching  sun, 
The  good  apostle  had  to  run, 
Till  evening  came ;  the  goat  was  caught, 
And  safely  to  the  Master  brought. 
Then,  with  a  smile,  to  Peter  said 
The  Lord :    "  Well,  friend,  how  have  you  sped? 
If  such  a  task  your  powers  has  tried, 
How  could  you  keep  the  world  so  wide?" 
Then  Peter,  with  his  toil  distressed, 
His  folly  with  a  sigh  confessed. 
"No,  Master,  'tis  for  me  no  play 
To  rule  one  goat  for  one  short  day ; 
It  must  be  infinitely  worse 
To  regulate  the  universe."  1 

In  a  piece  written  in  1522,  called  "  The  Witten- 
berg Nightingale,  which  is  now  heard  everywhere," 
Hang  Sachs  signifies  his  adhesion  to  the  cause  of 
the  Reformation.  A  herd,  blinded  by  false  light,  has 

1  Translation  of  Gostwick  and  Harrison. 


166  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

wandered  from  its  shepherd  into  a  desert,  where  it 
falls  among  wild  beasts.  Many  sheep  are  torn  by 
them,  especially  by  the  lion,  a  type  of  Leo  X.  ; 
the  flock  despairs  of  life,  when  suddenly- a  charm- 
ing nightingale  (Luther)  raises  her  voice,  guiding 
those  who  follow  her  to  a  beautiful  flowery  meadow, 
where  the  sun  shines  clear  and  the  springs  flow. 
The  lion  seeks  in  vain  to  kill  the  nightingale  ;  other 
beasts  raise  loud  cries  to  drown  her  song,  but  in 
vain.  None  of  the  beasts  that  tread  the  pasture 
suffer  themselves  to  be  misled  into  the  desert.  A 
long  explanation  follows  of  the  doctrines  and  observ- 
ances of  the  Church  which  were  especially  opposed 
by  Luther.  The  whole  ends  with  a  summons  to 
forsake  the  pope  and  return  to  Christ,  the  good 
shepherd. 

Close  upon  midnight,  on  a  night  at  the  end  of 
May,  the  train  left  me  before  the  Frauenthor  of 
Nuremberg ;  and  going  forward  in  the  light  of 
the  full  moon,  the  noise  of  the  locomotive  gradu- 
ally growing  fainter,  I  seemed  to  leave  the  nine- 
teenth century,  and  go  back  in  time  four  hundred 
years.  Glorified  in  the  radiance,  there  rose  the 
picturesque  outline  of  the  walls  which  have  come 
down  untouched  from  the  Middle  Ages,  from  the 
hand  of  Albrecht  Diirer ;  now  a  battlemented  pro- 
jection, from  which  one  might  expect  the  chal- 
lenge of  a  cross-bowman  ;  now  a  massive  round 
tower  ;  now  a  sharp,  gilded  pinnacle.  Crossing  the 
deep  moat,  I  passed  through  the  heavy  archway,  and 
was  on  the  pavement  of  the  quaint  street,  chan- 
nelled by  tides  of  human  life  for  so  many,  many 


THE   MASTERSINGERS.  167 

years.  It  was  long  before  I  could  give  up  the 
scene.  The  city  was  perfectly  still,  except  that  in 
open  places,  now  and  then,  where  there  were  trees, 
the  deep,  sweet,  intermittent  note  of  the  nightin- 
gales filled  the  air  with  music.  The  spires  of  the 
ancient  churches  rose  high  above  the  cavernous, 
grotesquely-carved  portals  ;  in  the  worn  and  mossy 
basins  of  the  old  fountains  the  water  plashed  softly, 
flowing  from  curious  devices,  —  now  from  the  breasts 
of  women,  now  from  the  twisted  necks  of  geese, 
held  under  the  arms  of  a  comical  figure.  In  the 
streets  were  rows  of  those  famous  homes  of  the 
men  long  gone,  which  our  elegant  cities  now  please 
themselves  with  reproducing ,  —  high-pointed  gables 
and  buttressed  walls,  the  heavy,  twisted  brackets 
holding  up  the  projecting  stories,  the  surfaces 
broken  with  massive  beams  and  variegated  tiles, 
and  surmounted  by  water-spouts,  now  in  the  form 
of  a  cherub's  face,  now  contorted  into  the  shape  of 
a  demon  or  a  monster,  according  to  the  caprice  of 
the  builder. 

I  spent  the  night  at  the  ancient  hostlery  of  ' '  The 
Lamb,"  in  a  low  guest-chamber,  lit  by  diminutive 
panes,  whose  wainscoting  was  ornamented  with  the 
portraits  of  three  full-bearded  carousers,  plumed 
and  in  doublets,  wrho  slept  in  the  same  room  when 
Charles  V.  was  emperor.  The  streets  next  day, 
under  the  glare  of  the  sun,  and  filled  with  a  modern 
generation,  were  hardly  so  interesting  as  in  solitude, 
and  lit  by  the  glamour  of  the  moon  at  midnight ; 
but  when  I  went  into  the  churches  of  Saint  Law- 
rence and  Saint  Sebald,  the  sunbeams  falling  dustily 


168  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

through  the  colored  windows  upon  the  rich  carvings 
of  pulpit  and  pillar,  the  illusion  returned.  The  fine 
associations  of  the  churches  are  a  thousand,  and 
none  are  finer  than  those  with  the  stout  artisans  of 
Nuremberg,  who  gave  the  city  its  ancient  fame. 
These  temples  they  wrought  out,  these  they  fre- 
quented, here  they  have  left  their  portraits,  and 
here  often  they  lie  buried.  On  the  screen  of  the 
wonderful  shrine  in  Saint  Sebald's  stands  the  stal- 
wart figure  of  Peter  Vischer,  who  made  it,  his  black- 
smith's apron  before  his  rotund  stomach,  his  work- 
man's cap  above  his  manly,  full-bearded  face.  In 
the  church  of  Saint  Lawrence,  Adam  KrafFt  and  his 
journeymen,  crouched  down  upon  the  pavement, 
hold  up  on  broad  shoulders  their  handiwork,  the 
beautiful  pyx,  whose  curling  summit,  graceful  as  a 
lily  stem,  bends  to  avoid  contact  with  the  arch  above. 
Here  they  wrought,  here  they  worshipped  ;  most  in- 
teresting and  significant  of  all,  here  they  came  in 
their  guilds,  from  forge  and  shoe-shop,  from  rope- 
walk  and  carpenter's  bench,  and  contended  labori- 
ously in  song  and  poem.  From  these  doors  went 
out  the  Mastersingers,  with  anxious  faces,  to  contests 
in  neighboring  cities,  — at  Bamberg,  at  Ulm,  or  at 
Hof.  Here  they  were  received  when,  with  leather 
apron  laid  aside,  the  honest  breast  heaved  proudly 
beneath  a  gold  or  silver  chain,  the  prize  gained 
somewhere  by  labored  rhyming. 

I  dreamed  awhile  in  the  churches,  then  going  once 
more  into  the  street,  stood  presently  before  the 
house  where  lived  the  greatest  of  the  Mastersingers, 
Hans  Sachs,  the  cobbler.  It  is  a  substantial  struct- 


THE   MASTERSINGERS.  169 

lire  with  a  tablet  let  into  the  front  inscribed  with 
his  name,  —  so  near  to  the  market-place  that  the 
burghers  may  have  heard  him  thence,  whether  he 
were  hammering  away  at  a  ditty  or  a  tough  strip 
of  sole-leather.  The  house  corroborates  the  testi- 
mony of  the  chronicles  that  he  worked  his  way  to 
a  substantial  position.  Far  beyond  the  walls  of 
Nuremberg  he  made  himself  known,  doing  his  part, 
meantime,  toward  keeping  his  generation  well  shod. 

As  I  think  of  a  figure  which  will  best  describe  Hans 
Sachs,  I  am  reminded  of  what  I  once  heard  from  a 
farmer  of  the  Connecticut  Valley.  "  The  land  on 
which  tobacco  does  best,"  he  said,  "is  not  that 
which  is  richest,  but  a  certain  rather  poor,  sandy 
soil,  which  has  little  strength  in  itself.  It  has  great 
power,  however,  of  absorbing  the  fertilizers  thrown 
upon  it,  which  in  turn  it  pours,  without  retention, 
into  the  coarse,  leathery  leaves,  spreading  until  they 
cover  the  meadow."  The  mind  of  Hans  Sachs  was 
such  a  soil.  Receptive  to  a  wonderful  degree,  from 
travel  and  observation  at  home,  he  absorbed  the  con- 
temporary world ;  he  gathered  much  too  from  the 
past.  All  this  he  threw  into  the  unrefined,  volu- 
minous product  which  was  harvested  at  last  into  the 
thirty-four  great  folios.  It  is  not  quite  sightly, — 
not  at  all  adapted  to  the  sensitive  and  delicate  ;  but 
a  whiff  of  him  now  even  is  not  unwholesome,  or 
without  enjoyment,  in  an  atmosphere  charged  with 
moral  malaria,  and  we  can  understand  well  that  in 
its  day  and  place  it  may  have  had  power  to  brace 
the  soul  in  important  ways. 

Whoever  visits  the  museum  at  Berlin  will  linger 


170  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

long  upon  the  staircase  in  the  centre,  to  see  the  great 
wall-paintings,  in  which  Kaulbach  represents  the 
leading  epochs  of  history.  It  is  the  last  picture  of 
the  series,  which  is  usually  thought  the  finest,  and  is 
most  familiar,  — The  Era  of  the  Reformation.  In  an 
immense  hall  are  grouped  the  figures  that  wrought 
the  modern  world,  — poets  and  philosophers,  artists 
and  reformers,  discoverers  and  scholars.  Columbus 
towers  here,  his  brow  heavy  with  his  great  thought ; 
here  Kepler  and  Copernicus  demonstrate  the  theories 
that  have  reconstructed  for  us  the  heavens.  The 
great  Italians  whose  names  are  connected  with  the 
revival  of  learning  are  busy  in  ways  that  symbolize 
their  noble  activity,  while  close  at  hand  is  the  face 
of  Shakespeare,  shadowed  by  mighty  imaginations. 
The  imperious  Elizabeth  stands  in  a  posture  of  com- 
mand ;  the  bold  Gustavus  makes  a  soldierly  gesture  ; 
Erasmus  and  Reuchlin  proceed  with  dignified  pace 
in  scholars'  gowns,  while  Albrecht  Diirer  spread  upon 
the  wall  a  magnificent  decoration.  Prince  and  states- 
man, warrior  and  sage,  bard  and  preacher, — the 
painter  has  thrown  them  upon  the  canvas  by  the 
score,  —  all  names  of  note  for  worthy  striving  in 
that  so  memorable  crisis.  Directly  in  front,  in  a 
place  of  prominence,  whom  do  we  find  but  homely 
Hans  Sachs  !  He  sits  crouched  upon  the  pavement, 
in  such  homely  attire  as  he  wore  in  the  Nuremberg 
streets,  with  a  thoughtful  head  bending  forward  in 
deep  absorption,  as  if  he  had  turned  aside  a  moment 
from  his  leather  to  frame  a  song.  An  honest  heart 
and  plain  good  sense  have  lifted  the  cobbler  thus 
into  the  company  of  the  great  of  the  era  of  the  Ret- 


THE    MASTERSINGERS.  171 

ormation.  And  who  is  it,  in  the  centre  of  the  pict- 
ure, that  stands  as  the  focus  of  the  whole?  A 
plainly-robed  monk,  of  vigorous  frame  and  power- 
ful countenance,  bearing  the  impress  of  unshrinking 
boldness.  He  holds  on  high,  that  the  whole  world 
may  see  it,  the  open  Bible.  Now  across  the  scene 
is  thrown  for  us  the  Titanic  shadow  of  Luther. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

LUTHER  IN  LITERATURE. 

With  regard  to  many  a  famous  historical  character, 
the  judgment  of  the  world  in  our  time  has  been  re- 
versed. Names  that  have  been  revered  have  come 
to  be  treated  with  contumely  ;  names  that  have  been 
contemned  have  come  to  be  treated  with  respect. 
Scholars  have  satisfied  themselves  that  Tiberius 
Csesar  and  Nero  have  not  received  justice.  Though 
we  may  not  entirely  trust  Mr.  Froude,  no  candid 
reader  will  hereafter  feel  disposed  to  set  aside  Henry 
VHI.  as  simply  brutal  and  cruel ;  on  the  other  hand, 
we  cannot  hold  Archbishop  Cranmer  to  have  been 
simply  a  great  benefactor.  Hep  worth  Dixon  shows 
plainly  that  the  character  of  Bacon  has  been  much 
maligned.  "With  regard  to  Luther,  there  has  been 
a  twofold  judgment:  the  Catholic  world  holding 
him  to  have  been  Anti-christ,  —  little  better  than 
Satan  himself;  the  Protestant  world  considering  him 
the  greatest  name  in  the  Church  since  the  days  of 
the  apostles.  Of  both  judgments  there  has  been 
to  some  extent  a  reversal,  for  Catholic  writers  of 
our  century  can  be  cited  who  pay  to  the  memory  of 
Luther  noble  tributes  j1  and,  on  the  other  hand,  no 


Friedrich  Schlegel,  Dollinger,  Von  Eichendorff. 


LUTHER   IN  LITERATURE.  173 

less  a  man  than  Gothe  thought  that  he  had  been 
much  over-estimated,  and  hud  done  in  the  world 
really  more  harm  than  good.  Gothe  considered  Eras- 
mus to  have  been  a  wiser  spirit.  Erasmus  had, 
when  the  Reformation  began,  a  large  following  ;  for 
there  were  many  men  within  the  pale  of  the  ancient 
Church  who  were  prepared  to  support  his  plans. 
Terrified  by  Luther's  iconoclasm,  they  went  back 
into  positions  which  they  never  would  have  taken 
but  for  their  fear  before  the  extremist.  The  igno- 
rant mass  were  perplexed  with  subtleties  of  philoso- 
phy and  theology  which  led  them  into  trouble  with- 
out helping  them  ;  old  superstitions  were  exchanged 
for  new  ideas  which  were  full  of  superstitions 
scarcely  less  harmful ;  the  most  terrible  war  of 
modern  times  came  at  length,  lasting  thirty  years  ; 
and  even  now,  at  the  distance  of  more  than  three 
hundred  years,  there  is  the  bitterness  of  death  be- 
tween the  two  parties, — which  perhaps,  with  dif- 
ferent management,  would  never  have  been  sun- 
dered.1 

It  is  right,  among  the  jarring  opinions,  to  say  this  : 
In  eras  of  change,  among  reformers  two  classes  of 
men  present  themselves.  One  class  dreads  a  con- 
vulsion,—  believes  in  employing  methods  which  will 
secure  the  end  gradually  ;  thinks  that  a  little  tem- 
porizing is  better  than  bloodshed ;  that  the  minds 
of  men  should  be  quietly  softened  toward  the  good, 
and  the  world  not  startled  by  sudden  conversion. 


1  Froude:   Short  Studies  on  Great  Subjects— Luther  and  Eras- 
mus.    Crabb  Robinson's  Diary. 


174  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

The  other  class  will  brook  no  delay ;  to  temporize 
belongs  to  the  devil ;  for  true  men  there  is  nothing 
possible  but  to  seize  the  absolute  good,  through 
whatever  suffering  and  destruction.  In  the  struggle 
which  Americans  have  so  lately  lived  through,  among 
those  anxious  to  bring  to  pass  a  better  world  these 
classes  have  been  very  plain.  On  one  side  have 
been  a  multitude  of  conscientious  persons  who  saw 
evil  and  were  stubborn  in  their  resolution  to  destroy 
it,  but  who  believed  it  might  be  accomplished  by 
means  gentler,  if  slower,  than  warfare.  On  the 
other  side  were  the  Garrisons  and  John  Browns,  who 
believed  that  the  Union,  as  it  stood,  was  a  "  cov- 
enant with  death  and  an  agreement  with  hell,"  not 
to  be  tolerated  for  a  moment.  If  we  ascend  to  the 
times  of  the  French  revolution,  something  similar 
may  be  seen  in  the  parties  whose  types  were,  on  the 
one  side,  the  moderate  Lafayette,  and  on  the  other, 
Robespierre  and  Saint  Just.  In  the  English  revolu- 
tion, again,  we  behold  conservative  patriots,  open- 
eyed  before  the  evils,  but  who  believe  they  can 
remedy  them  without  an  utter  overturn,  types  of 
whom  are  Clarendon  and  the  noble  Falkland ;  op- 
posed to  whom  stands  the  stubborn  figure  of  Crom- 
well, who  will  hear  of  no  compromise.  A  century 
earlier,  in  the  convulsion  with  which  we  have  to  do 
at  present,  the  genial  Erasmus  is  the  type  of  the 
moderate  men  who  believed  in  the  possibility  of  a 
gradual  betterment ;  Luther,  of  those  who  will  hear 
nothing  of  politic  handling,  striking  at  the  founda- 
tions of  the  old  order,  reckless  of  cost  to  the  world. 
I  do  not  accept  the  view  that  Luther  must  be 


LUTHER   IN  LITERATURE.  175 

reckoned  among  the  harmful  men  of  history ;  nor 
the  other  view,  that  his  work  was  only  beneficent. 
Whatever  our  judgment  may  be  as  to  what  he  actu- 
ally accomplished,  it  seems  to  me  that  the  man  him- 
self must  always  tower  conspicuous  among  the 
heroes  of  human  history,  superb  in  grand  purpose 
and  self-neglecting  boldness.  I  shall  try  to  touch 
all  points  impartially,  and  feel  that  I  am  in  a  posi- 
tion to  do  so,  from  the  fact  that,  much  as  I  revere 
the  man,  to  my  mind  there  is  scarcely  less  super- 
stition in  the  system  he  sought  to  establish  than  in 
the  system  he  sought  to  overthrow.  It  is  the  effect 
of  Luther  upon  German  literature  that  we  have  to 
consider.  We  cannot,  however,  separate  Luther 
the  writer  from  Luther  the  man  of  action,  and  I 
must  briefly  outline  his  career  and  historical  position. 

Never  had  the  papal  power  appeared  to  its  up- 
holders to  be  more  secure  than  at  the  beginning  of 
the  sixteenth  century.  Throughout  Europe  the 
pontiff  beheld  at  his  feet  a  reverent  and  submissive 
company  of  nations  ;  or,  if  there  were  discontent, 
the  Church  seemed  able  to  quell  it  by  the  simple 
lifting  of  her  arm.  We  who  live  so  long  after  the 
period,  having  access  to  ample  pages  of  history, 
can  see  plainly  enough,  in  the  apparent  peace  and 
security,  signs  of  an  inevitable  change.  The  change 
had  been  long  preparing ;  indeed,  from  the  very 
origin  of  the  papacy  one  may  trace  the  existence 
of  Protestant  tendencies.  The  Church  had  always 
succeeded  in  suppressing  them,  but  strength  had 
been  spent  in  the  effort,  and  she  had  become  more 


176  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

infirm  than  she  knew.  From  the  day  when  the 
papal  power,  protected  by  the  sword  of  the  grate- 
ful Pepin,  had  been  fairly  established  in  its  suprem- 
acy, down  through  its  whole  history,  is  to  be 
traced  a  parallel  line  of  protest  and  dissent.  In 
some  countries  the  spirit  of  discontent  had  been 
more  rife  than  in  others.  In  England  and  Northern 
Europe,  in  Switzerland  and  parts  of  Bohemia,  it 
was  especially  prevalent.  Claude  of  Turin,  Peter 
of  Bruis,  Arnold  of  Brescia,  the  Mystics,  of  whom 
Tauler  is  the  representative,  the  Vaudois  peasants, 
Savonarola,  Wickliffe,  Huss, — the  line  of  bold 
men  is  uninterrupted  whose  voices  had  so  often 
been  smothered  in  dungeons  or  silenced  by  torture 
and  fire.  Since  the  burning  of  Huss  there  had 
been  a  wide-spread  sowing  of  the  seed  of  martyr- 
blood,  whose  fruit  was  to  be  the  Reformed  Church. 
Denouncing  voices  grew  more  numerous.  The 
low  murmur,  resounding  from  the  ninth  century, 
never  dying  into  silence,  now  sinking  faint  for  a 
time,  then  swelling  louder  as  age  followed  age, 
coming  now  from  Albigensian  valleys,  now  from 
a  Piedmont  mountain,  from  the  shore  of  a  Swiss 
lake,  or  an  English  cloister,  rose  at  last  into  a  fierce 
outcry. 

To  the  city  of  Wittenberg,  in  Saxony,  in  1517, 
came  the  Dominican,  Tetzel,  to  sell  indulgences. 
What  precisely  they  were,  and  whether  the  traffic 
was  or  was  not  justifiable,  will  not  be  considered 
here.  The  wrath  of  one  man,  at  any  rate,  was 
aroused ;  for  a  paper  couched  in  indignant  language 
was  one  day  found  nailed  to  thje  door  of  the  church, 


LUTHER    IN  LITERATURE.  177 

in  which  Tetzel  and  his  errand  were  denounced. 
' '  Who  is  he  ?  "  said  the  Dominican.  « <  Who  is  he  ? ' ' 
said  all  Germany  presently,  for  the  paper  went  far 
and  wide.  "  Brother  Martin  Luther,  Augustinian 
monk,  professor  in  the  university,  now  a  man  in  his 
prime."  The  people  of  Wittenberg  all  knew  him 
as  the  popular  city  preacher  ;  the  faculty  of  his  uni- 
versity all  knew  him  as  a  good-natured,  but  over- 
arrogant,  spirit  who  had  dared  to  blaspheme  the  great 
gods  of  the  schoolmen,  —  Aristotle  and  Thomas 
Aquinas.  There  was  little  more  to  say,  except  that 
his  father  was  a  miner  out  of  the  Thuringian  woods, 
and  that  he  himself  was  born  at  Eisleben,  in  Saxony. 
The  friars  laughed ;  the  rich  bishops  wondered  at 
the  monk's  impertinence  ;  Leo  X.,  out  of  his  purple, 
passed  an  elegant  sarcasm  on  Brother  Martin's  fine 
parts  ;  Erasmus  and  the  bolder  scholars  looked  with 
eagerness  to  see  what  this  unexpected  recruit  to 
their  ranks  would  do  next ;  Friedrich,  elector  of 
Saxony,  cautiously  rejoicing,  sought  to  palliate  to 
the  pope  the  offence  of  his  subject ;  but  Maximilian, 
the  emperor,  wrote  a  letter  of  alarm.  Leo  had 
thought  to  dismiss  the  matter  with  a  joke,  but 
when  great  princes  were  so  concerned,  he  saw  that 
more  was  necessary.  Legates  were  sent  to  bend 
him,  but  Brother  Martin  remained  inflexible,  under 
the  protection  of  the  elector. 

At  length  came  a  famous  disputation  at  Leipsic 
between  professors  from  Wittenberg  and  Ingolstadt. 
In  the  splendid  ducal  hall  were  assembled  many  mag- 
nates of  the  electorate,  both  ecclesiastical  and  lay. 
Little  interest  was  felt  until  a  thin  young  man,  of 


178  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

middle  size,  ascended  the  steps  of  the  platform.  His 
self-possession  was  unruffled  ;  he  carried  a  bouquet 
in  his  hand ;  his  voice  was  melodious  and  clear ; 
the  Bible  was  at  his  tongue's  end  ;  his  face  showed 
the  marks  of  intense  mental  conflicts.  At  the  end 
of  the  dispute  Luther  stood  still  further  committed 
in  opposition  to  the  Church.  All  Germany  was 
talking  about  him  now ;  he  stood  in  the  attitude  of 
Huss  and  Jerome,  and  events  bade  fair  to  bring 
about  for  him  a  similar  fate.  But  he  was  not  alone. 
A  powerful  prince  of  the  empire  threw  about  him 
the  strength  of  his  whole  domain ;  the  scattered 
forces  of  rebellion  throughout  Europe  recognized  a 
new  leader,  and  began  to  concentrate  about  him. 
Then  Leo  hurled  his  last  and  most  terrible  weapon, 
before  which  heretofore  kings  had  gone  down, 
broken  in  power  and  spirit,  —  excommunication. 

One  December  day,  by  the  Elster  gate  of  Witten- 
berg, preparations,  as  men  saw,  had  been  made  for 
a  bonfire.  Faggots  lay  about  in  the  snow,  and 
presently  from  the  city  came  the  sound  of  tramping 
feet.  The  university  —  professors  and  students  — 
appeared  through  the  gate  ;  a  fire  was  kindled,  and 
Luther,  who  marched  in  front,  with  contemptuous 
gestures  threw  into  the  flames  the  canon  law,  some 
writings  of  the  school-men,  and  —  unheard  of  bold- 
ness— the  papal  bull  of  anthema  !  Then  turning  on 
his  heel,  fearless  and  defiant,  he  reentered  the  city. 
The  attention  of  the  world  now  centred  upon  him 
more  strongly  than  ever.  A  rebellious  spirit  was 
everywhere  abroad,  breaking  out  in  the  most  unex- 
pected quarters  ;  and  the  new  emperor,  Charles  V., 


LUTHER    IN   LITERATURE.  179 

felt  called  upon  to  give  the  matter  his  most  serious 
attention. 

In  1521  a  diet  of  the  empire  was  convened  at 
Worms,  and  Luther  was  summoned  to  be  present. 
An  imperial  safe-conduct  was  granted ;  but  if  it 
should  be  violated,  there  were  well-remembered  prec- 
edents to  which  the  powers  might  appeal.  His 
friends  besought  him  to  remain  in  safety  under  the 
protection  of  his  powerful  supporter.  His  enemies 
sought  to  terrify  him  from  appearing,  by  threats. 
But  Luther's  sagacity  enforced  his  courage.  He 
knew  mankind ;  he  knew  the  ardent  hero-worship 
that  follows  a  fearless,  self-reliant  course.  "  If  the 
devils  at  Worms  are  as  thick  as  the  tiles  on  the 
house-tops,"  he  said,  characteristically,  "  at  Worms 
I  will  still  appear."  The  people,  as  he  passed  on, 
flocked  in  awe  to  see  him.  He  entered  Worms  in  a 
great  procession,  shouting,  as  is  said,  a  defiant 
hymn.  Before  the  assembly  he  stood  unembar- 
rassed, one  poor  monk  in  his  sober  robe.  The  sun 
pouring  through  the  windows  found  only  one  dull 
spot  in  the  hall,  the  rough,  brown  frock  of  Luther. 
Elsewhere  it  shone  on  the  scarlet  of  cardinals,  mul- 
tiplied itself  a  hundredfold  on  princely  diadems,  on 
chains  and  sword-hilts,  on  the  armor  of  knights,  on 
the  emblems  of  mighty  power.  "Unless,"  said 
he,  "  my  errors  can  be  demonstrated  from  texts  of 
scripture,  I  will  not  and  can  not  recant ;  for  it  is 
not  safe  for  a  man  to  go  against  his  conscience. 
Here  I  stand ;  I  cannot  do  otherwise ;  God  help 
me  ! ' '  He  was  permitted  to  retire, — henceforth  the 
idol  of  the  nation.  The  souls  of  Germans  every- 


180  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

where  were  thrilled  with  a  new  pride,  that  they 
were  the  countrymen  of  Luther.  It  seemed  as  if, 
in  the  old  Thuringian  wood,  the  heart  of  an  oak 
had  bartered  its  sylvan  life  for  a  human  spirit ;  and 
then,  toughly  knit  with  the  fibrous  vigor  that  could 
defy  the  mountain  whirlwinds,  had  come  to  with- 
stand the  potent  forces  of  the  hierarchy  ! 

With  the  diet  of  Worms  the  crowning  point  of 
Luther's  career  is  reached;  he  never  became  more 
famous  ;  he  never  appeared  more  grandly.  We  can- 
not follow  him  step  by  step  through  the  fifteen  re- 
maining years  of  his  life.  His  seclusion  in  the 
Wartburg  while  he  begins  his  translation  of  the  Bi- 
ble ;  his  marriage  with  Katherine  von  Bora,  the 
recusant  nun ;  his  sojourn  in  the  castle  of  Coburg 
during  the  diet  at  Augsburg ;  his  fierce  controversies 
and  enormous  labors,  must  go  unnoticed.  His  life 
was  filled  with  toil  to  his  last  hour,  perplexed  and 
anxious  beyond  the  lot  of  mortals.  He  had  hoped 
that  his  cause  might  triumph  without  civil  commo- 
tion ;  but  now  too  plainly  over  Europe  lowered  the 
shadow  of  the  dark  years  of  bloodshed  that  were 
impending.  In  his  eager  pursuit  of  what  he  felt  to 
be  harmful,  he  had  unleashed  all  the  unsettled, 
revolutionary  elements  in  society,  which  pressed 
along  with  him  in  the  same  chase.  But  the  pack 
constantly  became  more  tumultuous,  until  at  length 
the  huntsman  was  in  danger  of  being  devoured  by 
his  own  dogs.  Never  was  scourge  more  vigorous 
than  that  with  which  Luther  laid  about  him,  as  he 
withheld  now  and  then  from  the  hunt  to  discipline 
his  too  wild  auxiliaries.  Some  were  indeed  wolves, 


LUTHER    IN  LITERATURE.  181 

and  deserved  the  cuts  they  received  from  the  strong 
arm  ;  others,  however,  were  trusty  helpers,  who  did 
not  merit  the  bitter  lashing.  But  whether  it  was 
the  wise  and  tolerant  Zwingle,  or  the  extravagant 
Carlstadt,  the  oppressed  peasant  hoping  that  a 
better  time  had  come  for  him,  and  rising  to  meet 
it,  or  the  licentious  follower  of  John  of  Leyden, 
Luther  smote  them  all  with  undiscriminating  wrath. 
He  too  often  forgot  his  own  liberal  declarations ; l 
he  never  forsook  entirely  his  former  faith,  departing 
from  the  traditions  of  the  Church  no  farther  than 
he  thought  they  were  absolutely  contradicted  by  the 
scriptures.  In  particular  he  refused  all  fellowship 
with  those  who  denied  the  real  presence  of  the  Lord 
in  the  Eucharist.  While  he  was  over-strict  in  trifles, 
he  was  sometimes  too  tolerant  of  grave  offences,  — 
for  instance,  of  the  bigamy  of  his  friend  the  land- 
grave of  Hesse.  Nothing  can  surpass  the  fury  that 
he  sometimes  showed  in  controversy ;  in  particular 
he  assailed  the  peasants  with  expressions  that  are  ter- 
rible. "I  think  there  are  no  more  devils  in  hell,  but 
all  have  gone  into  the  peasants.  Whoever  is  slain 
on  the  side  of  the  magistrates  is  a  veritable  martyr 
of  God,  if  he  fights  with  a  good  conscience.  Who- 
ever perishes  on  the  side  of  the  peasants  will  burn 
everlastingly  in  hell,  for  he  is  a  limb  of  the  devil. 


1  In  a  letter  of  Lessing's,  written  in  his  early  manhood,  he  nar- 
rates an  instance  of  Luther's  intolerance,  saying:  "I  hold  Luther 
in  such  reverence  that  I  like  to  discover  some  small  faults  in  him. 
The  traces  of  humanity  which  I  find  in  him  are  to  me  as  precious  as 
the  most  dazzling  of  his  perfections."  This  may  be  compared  with 
the  delight  Theodore  Parker  is  said  to  have  taken  in  the  swearing  of 
Washington  at  Monmouth. 


182  GERMAN  LITERATURE 

Such  times  have  come  that  a  prince  can  serve 
Heaven  better  with  bloodshed  than  prayer.  There- 
fore, dear  lords,  let  him  who  can,  thrust,  strike,  and 
kill.  If,  meanwhile,  you  are  slain,  more  blissful 
death  you  could  never  undergo."  l  There  are  other 
expressions  even  stronger  than  these.  The  polemic 
literature  of  the  world  has  nothing  more  forcible — 
perhaps  we  may  say  nothing  more  shocking  —  than 
some  of  these  expressions ;  they  read  like  the  im- 
precations of  some  old  Norse  god,  lashed  into  a 
Berserker  rage. 

The  name  of  Luther  must  be  connected  with  the 
saddest  superstition  of  his  time.  He  urged  witch- 
burnings,  and  would  no  doubt  have  cheerfully  as- 
sisted at  them.2  He  was  the  child  of  peasants,  and 
in  his  conception  the  devil  has  a  very  ancient,  hea- 
thenish stamp.  The  devil  makes  the  destructive  tem- 
•pests  ;  the  angels  make  the  good  winds,  —  as  in  the 
pagan  days  the  giant  eagles  were  believed  to  do,  with 
the  beat  of  their  wings,  sitting  upon  the  border  of 
the  world.  The  devil  sits  as  Nixie  under  the  bridge, 
drawing  girls  into  the  water,  whom  he  marries.  He 
serves  as  a  house-spirit  in  the  cloister ;  as  a  cobold, 
he  blows  out  the  fire  ;  as  a  dwarf,  he  substitutes 
imps  for  human  children  in  the  cradle,  befools  sleep- 
ers so  that  they  climb  upon  roofs,  and  haunts  cham- 
bers. It  was  in  this  last  character  especially  that  he 
disturbed  Luther.  He  believed  that  his  mother  had 
been  injured  by  a  witch,  and  was  angry  at  the  courts 


1  Schrift  wider  die  rauberischen  Bauern. 
»  Freytag. 


LUTHER   IN  LITERATURE.  183 

for  not  punishing  them  with  sufficient  severity. 
Luther  so  emphasized  his  faith  in  the  devil  and 
witches  that  those  who  followed  him  went  into  great 
extremes.  The  superstition  was  brought  into  a  prom- 
inence which  it  had  never  had  before,  the  persecu- 
tions resulting  which  affect  us  with  such  horror. 

Yet  as  to  Luther's  honest  purpose  we  can  never 
be  in  doubt.  "  His  heart  was  faithful  and  without 
falsehood.  The  hardness  which  he  used  against  the 
enemies  of  the  faith  in  his  writings  came,  not  from 
a  quarrelsome  or  evil  spirit,  but  from  great  earnest- 
ness and  zeal  for  the  truth."  1  Though  his  call  to 
the  princes  in  the  time  of  the  Peasants'  War  was  so 
wild  and  fierce,  his  policy  was  no  doubt  in  the  right 
direction.  There  was,  unfortunately,  in  Germany 
no  better  power  than  that  of  the  princes  ;  on  them 
alone  rested  the  future  of  the  Fatherland.  Neither 
the  peasants,  nor  the  robber  nobles,  nor  the  isolated 
imperial  cities,  gave  any  guarantee.2  No  mortal's 
path  was  ever  more  beset  with  difficulties ;  to  say 
that  he  made  mistakes  is  only  saying  that  he  was 
human.  The  movement  of  which  he  had  been  the 
spring  now  looked  to  him  to  be  its  guide.  From  the 
multitudes  in  revolt  came  a  thousand  appeals.  He 
was  arbiter  in  countless  disputes  ;  his  correspondence 
was  enormous ;  he  wrote  numberless  tracts  ;  he 
translated  the  Bible ;  his  labors  as  a  preacher  were 
unparalleled.  But  he  was  equal  to  all.  Day  after 
day  his  busy  pen  heaped  up  piles  of  manuscript, 


Melancthon's  funeral  sermon. 
Freytag. 


184  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

part  to  go  to  the  farthest  corners  of  Germany,  with 
messages  that  might  shake  a  throne  ;  part  to  give 
cheer  to  friends  in  humble  station,  or  with  the  pur* 
pose  to  make  children  happy ;  part  containing  the 
message  of  God  to  the  old  Hebrew,  transmuted  into 
the  vigorous  tongue  of  the  North.  Nothing  was 
ever  sweeter  than  the  heart  of  the  giant  world- 
shaker.  While  at  the  Wartburg  he  went  hunting, 
but  his  sympathy  was  with  the  hares  and  birds  that 
were  driven  into  snares  by  the  men  and  dogs.  To 
save  the  life  of  a  young  hare,  he  wrapped  it  in  his 
sleeve ;  but  the  dogs  coming,  broke  the  creature's 
legs  even  in  its  protection.  "So,"  said  Luther, 
"  does  Satan  gnash  his  teeth  against  the  souls  which 
I  seek  to  save. ' ' 1  Very  tender  is  the  narration  of  the 
death  of  his  favorite  daughter,  Magdalen.  When 
his  daughter  lay  deathly  sick,  "I  love  her  very 
dearly,"  said  he,  "but  dear  God,  since  it  is  Thy 
will  to  take  her  hence,  I  am  glad  to  know  she  will 
be  with  Thee."  Then  said  the  father,  "Little 
daughter  dear,  the  spirit  is  willing,  but  the  flesh  is 
weak."  Turning  away,  he  said,  "  Oh,  she  is  so  dear 
to  me  !  If  the  flesh  is  so  strong,  what  will  the 
spirit  be  ! "  Then  she  died,  going  to  sleep  in  her 
father's  arms.  The  mother  too  was  in  the  same 
room,  but  farther  from  the  bed,  on  account  of  her 
grief.  It  was  a  little  after  nine,  on  Wednesday  of 
the  seventeenth  Sunday  after  Trinity,  1543.  When 
she  lay  in  her  coffin,  he  said,  "  Lena,  darling,  how 
well  is  it  with  thee  !  Thou  wilt  arise  again  and  shine 

1  Freytag. 


LUTHER   IN  LITERATURE.  185 

as  a  star,  —  yea,  as  the  sun, — but  the  parting  vexes 
me  beyond  measure  sore.  It  is  strange  to  know  that 
she  is  certainly  at  peace,  and  that  it  is  well  with  her, 
and  yet  be  so  sad."  At  the  funeral  he  said,  among 
other  things,  "  We  must  take  care  of  the  children, 
especially  the  poor  girls.  I  have  no  pity  for  the 
boys  ;  a  boy  supports  himself,  into  whatever  land  he 
comes,  if  he  will  only  work.  But  if  he  is  lazy,  he 
remains  a  good-for-nothing  ;  but  the  poor  girls  must 
have  a  staff.  A  boy  can  get  along  after  being  a  lit- 
tle wild,  so  that  afterwards  a  fine  man  may  come 
out  of  him.  A  maid  cannot  do  that.  She  will  soon 
come  to  shame  if  she  forgets  herself."1 

He  labored  on,  often  violent  and  dogmatic,  always 
honest  and  dutiful,  fierce  as  a  lion  in  his  wrath,  yet 
the  tenderest  of  men,  until  at  Eisleben,  whither  he 
had  gone  to  settle  disputes  between  the  rulers  of  his 
native  region,  in  1546,  worn  out  with  care  and 
anxiety,  the  great  reformer  dipd. 

It  was  in  active  life  that  the  powers  of  Luther 
found  their  most  appropriate  field,  —  extraordinary 
compound  that  he  was  of  sense,  energy,  and  bold- 
ness. His  significance,  however,  was  immense  in 
the  history  of  literature.  In  judging  of  him  as  a 
writer  I  shall  not  follow  Hallam,  who  esteems  him 
lightly.2  Luther  was  neither  a  philosopher  nor  a 
poet.  For  metaphysical  speculations  he  had  no 
liking  or  aptitude,  treating  the  school-men  and  their 


1  Tischreden. 

2  History  of  the  Literature  of  Europe  in  the  Fourteenth,  Fifteenth 
and  Sixteenth  Centuries. 


186  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

revered  authorities  with  contempt,  and  in  his  con- 
troversies bearing  down  his  opponents  with  sturdy, 
honest  force,  which  sometimes  became  violence  and 
arrogance,  but  never  with  superior  subtlety.  His 
imagination  was  not  especially  vivid.  Though  his 
writings  abound  with  illustrations,  they  are  more 
forcible  and  homely  than  beautiful,  more  apt  than 
tasteful.  The  qualities  most  conspicuous  in  his  style 
are  the  same  that  he  showed  in  life,  —  robust  strength 
and  practical  sense.  In  many  a  passage  he  is  too 
strong.  His  greatest  admirers  are  forced  to  admit 
he  could  scold  like  a  fish- wife.  Generally,  his  ex- 
pressions are  characterized  by  an  oaken  sturdiness  ; 
but  in  some  of  his  letters,  especially  those  to  his 
wife  and  children,  come  out  most  sweet  and  genial 
utterances,  hanging  about  the  tough  boles  and  limbs 
like  vines  flowering  with  delicate  blossoms  of  gentle- 
ness. His  writings  are  often  diffuse  and  obscure, — 
faults  due  to  the  haste  in  which  they  were  prepared  ; 
oftentimes  they  display  strong  eloquence. 

In  the  great  library  at  Berlin,  through  the  glass 
lid  of  one  of  the  cases,  you  see  a  book  of  white 
paper,  grown  yellow  through  age,  on  the  pages 
of  which,  as  it  lies  open  before  you,  is  the  work 
of  a  pen  which  plainly  moved  under  the  impulse  of 
an  energetic  spirit.  Sometimes  the  mark  is  broad, 
where  the  fist  bore  down  heavily;  the  tops  and 
bottoms  of  the  long  letters  are  not  ungraceful  in 
their  curves,  thrown  off,  it  is  plain,  in  a  moment, 
by  a  forcible  whirl  of  the  fingers ;  and  so  you 
trace  the  track  of  the  strong,  quick-moving  hand 
down  the  page,  thinking  what  eyes  were  bent  upon 


LUTHER    IN  LITERATURE.  187 

it,  what  forehead  was  knotted  over  it,  what  soul 
it  was  that  set  the  breath  panting  meanwhile  in 
the  concentrated  attention  of  the  writer.  It  is 
Luther's  translation  of  the  Bible,  in  his  own  hand. 
Upon  this  he  expended  the  full  force  of  his  talent. 
That  Luther  translated  the  Bible  is  a  great  gain, 
for  this  reason,  aside  from  every  other:  that  it 
was  possible  for  him  in  this  way  to  unfold  the 
riches  of  the  German  tongue,  and  form  it  for  all 
time.1  Before  Luther  there  were  a  multitude  of 
dialects,  no  one  of  which  was  dominant,  and  the 
confusion  was  great.  Luther  restored  unity,  and  it 
was  through  his  Bible  that  his  speech  became  the 
universal  speech.  Wherever  the  Reformation  went, 
this  also  went,  becoming  the  most  popular  —  one 
might  say  the  only — people's  book.  Upon  this 
were  founded  all  writings  and  addresses  to  the 
people,  until  it  everywhere  prevailed.  "  No  hut  so 
small,  no  household  so  poor,  that  Luther's  Bible 
did  not  enter ;  it  became  for  the  people,  not  merely 
a  book  of  devotion,  but  the  staple  reading.  It 
contained  the  whole  spiritual  world,  in  which  the 
young  grew  up,  to  which  the  old  returned,  from 
whose  contents  the  weary  and  heavy-laden  got  re- 
lief, in  the  pressure  of  the  day.  For  the  keeping 
of  our  national  spirit  sound,  undestroyed  by  fash- 
ionable folly  or  aping  of  the  foreigner,  this  book 
was  the  panacea.  Out  of  the  simple  households  of 
our  country  parsons,  our  citizens,  and  peasant  fami- 
lies—  to  which  Luther's  Bible  was  everything  — 

1  Kurz. 


188  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

proceeded,  in  the  eighteenth  century,  the  reformers 
of  our  national  culture  ;  and  when  they  began  to 
purify  our  beautiful  language,  they  referred  back  to 
the  inexhaustible  treasury  of  this  book."1 

The  homely  character  of  Luther's  language  com- 
mended it.  In  every  word,  term,  and  sentence  peo- 
ple recognized  their  own  talk,  sounding  to  them 
familiar,  though  free  from  dialect.  "  I  sweat  blood 
and  water,"  he  says,  "trying  to  render  the  prophets 
into  the  vulgar  tongue.  Good  God,  what  a  labor  to 
make  these  Hebrew  writers  speak  German  !  They 
struggle  furiously  against  giving  up  their  beautiful 
language  to  our  barbarous  idiom.  'Tis  as  though 
you  should  force  a  nightingale  to  forget  her  sweet 
melody  and  sing  like  the  cuckoo."  Again,  he  says, 
"  We  must  not  ask  the  pedants  how  one  should  talk 
German,  as  the  asses  [meaning  the  Papists]  do  ; 
but  we  must  ask  the  mother  in  the  house,  the  chil- 
dren on  the  streets,  the  common  men  in  the  market ; 
look  at  them  in  the  mouth,  hear  how  they  talk, 
and  interpret  them  accordingly  ;  then  they  will  un- 
derstand that  one  is  talking  German.  When  Christ 
says  fJEx  abundantia  cordis,  os  loquitur,'  if  I  fol- 
low the  asses,  I  shall  translate,  "From  the  super- 
fluity of  the  immaterial  part  proceedeth  the  utter- 
ance.' Tell  me,  is  that  German?  What  German 
understands  talk  of  that  sort  ?  What  is  '  superfluity 
of  the  immaterial  part '  to  a  German  ?  That  will 
no  German  say.  But  thus  speaks  the  mother  in  the 
house,  and  the  common  man,  « If  the  heart 's  full, 


Ludwig  Hausser. 


LUTHER   IN  LITERATURE.  189 

the  mouth  '11  out  with  it.'  That  is  talking  proper 
German,  which  I  have  worked  after,  not  altogether 
successfully.  It  has  sometimes  happened  that  we 
have  sought  after  a  word  a  fortnight,  or  three  or  four 
weeks,  and  then  sometimes  have  not  found  it.  In 
Job,  Melanchthon  and  I  worked  so  that  we  some- 
times scarcely  got  through  three  lines  in  four  days  ; 
but  now  that  it  is  all  ready,  everybody  can  read  and 
master  it.  He  slides  along  as  over  a  smooth  board, 
where  we  have  had  to  sweat  and  fret  to  get  the 
stumbling-blocks  out  of  the  way."  Luther  and 
Melancthon  once  strove  over  a  passage  in  the  New 
Testament.  "All  I  care  for,"  said  Melancthon, 
"is  the  Greek."  "And  all  I  care  for,"  said  Lu- 
ther, "  is  the  German." l  He  often  went  to  market 
just  to  hear  how  the  people  talked,  what  idioms 
they  used  in  such  and  such  circumstances,  and 
begged  his  friends  to  impart  to  him  all  the  genuine 
popular  phrases  they  could  get  hold  of,  saying, 
"  Palace  and  court  words  I  cannot  use." 

Luther's  Bible  would  be  an  immortal  work  for  the 
purity  and  genuine  German  stamp  of  the  language 
alone,  but  this  is  scarcely  its  greatest  value.  He 
comprehends  with  an  admirable  certainty  the  vari- 
ous spirit  of  different  books,  rendering  in  simple 
narrative  style  what  is  historical ;  giving  in  fiery 
speech,  now  inspiring,  now  crushing,  the  great 
images  of  the  prophets  ;  in  the  Song  of  Solomon 
rendering  the  glow,  the  rapture,  the  grief  of  the 


1  "Es  ist  mir  nur  urns  Griechische."     "Und  mir  urns  Deutsche," 
versetzte  Luther. 


190  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

lover,  in  truly  Oriental  color.  In  the  Psalms  his 
tone  is  most  exalted,  in  the  Gospels  it  is  simplicity, 
in  the  Epistles. lofty  greatness  and  strength  of  con- 
viction. If  he  had  translated  only  one  book  with 
this  completeness  it  would  be  wonderful ;  but  the 
whole  Bible,  —  so  great  a  number  of  the  most  vari- 
ous writings, — to  give  these  in  their  individuality, 
with  such  unsurpassable  mastery,  shows  the  richest 
talent,  or,  rather,  such  a  reach  of  intellectual  great- 
ness as  seldom  belongs  to  man.1 

In  the  twenty-four  volumes  of  the  edition  of  the 
last  century  —  the  most  complete  of  the  works 
of  Luther  —  are  contained  sermons,  dissertations, 
poems,  letters.  He  could  strike  all  chords  with  equal 
felicity.  Sometimes  he  is  quietly  instructive  and 
genial,  sometimes  an  enthusiastic  expounder,  some- 
times he  exhibits  crushing  power  in  sarcasm  and 
mockery.  In  his  polemical  writings  his  strength,  as 
has  been  considered,  often  becomes  excessive  rude- 
ness;  in  particular  against  Henry  VIII.,  the  Ana- 
baptists, and  the  unhappy  peasants,  all  bounds  of 
moderation  are  exceeded.  He  was  thoroughly  bold, 
and  a  man  of  the  people,  and  often  threatened  the 
princes.  The  fulminations  are  sometimes  full  of 
genius,  marvels  of  power,  with  which  scarcely  any- 
thing of  the  kind  can  be  compared. 

As  an  orator  he  was  the  greatest  of  his  century, 
gifted  by  nature  with  all  the  necessary  qualities  of 
body  and  intellect.  The  effect  of  his  addresses  was 
always  great,  —  often  irresistible.  He  was  clear, 

1  Kurz. 


LUTHER   IN  LITERATURE.  191 

warm,  and  strong,  and  often  full  of  fire;  princes 
and  peasants  he  affected  equally.  Here  are  some 
examples  of  his  vigorous,  homely  sense  :  "  God  be 
praised,"  he  says,  in  his  preface  to  his  Household 
Sermons,1  "the  Bible  is  open,  with  rich  and  useful 
books  of  many  learned  men,  wherein  a  Christian 
may  well- rejoice.  As  the  saying  is,  '  The  cow  goes 
in  grass  up  to  her  belly,'  so  we  now  are  richly 
provided  with  pasture  of  the  Divine  Word.  God 
grant  that  we  may  feed  gratefully,  and  become  fat 
and  strong  from  it,  before  a  drought  comes  ! ' '  How 
could  an  advocate  of  compulsory  education  put  his 
cause  better  than  as  follows  :  "I  hold  that  the  gov- 
ernment ought  to  compel  subjects  to  send  their 
children  to  school.  If  it  can  compel  subjects  who 
are  equal  to  it  to  carry  spear  and  musket  when  the 
wars  come,  how  much  more  can,  and  ought,  it  to 
compel  the  children  to  go  to  school ;  because  a 
worse  war  is  to  be  fought,  —  that  with  the  harmful 
devil,  who  goes  around  sucking  at  cities  and  king- 
doms until  he  draws  out  all  the  good  people  and 
leaves  a  mere  worthless  shell  behind,  with  which, 
the  yolk  being  gone,  he  can  fool  as  much  as  he 
chooses."  Here  is  his  idea  of  the  proper  function 
of  woman  :  ' '  Women  are  adorned  and  graced  with 
God's  blessing  and  maternal  honor,  and  we  are  all 
conceived,  born,  nourished,  and  brought  up  by 
them.  I  myself  often  feel  great  pleasure  and  en- 
tertainment when  I  see  how  women  are  adapted  to 
the  care  of  children.  How  skilfully  do  even  little 


Haus-postille. 


192  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

girls  manage  when  they  carry  babies  !  How  moth- 
ers sport,  with  delicate,  comforting  gestures  and 
movements,  when  they  quiet  a  weeping  child  or  lay 
it  in  the  cradle  !  Let  a  man  undertake  that  now 
and  he  will  be  like  a  camel  trying  to  dance."  Never 
was  given  better  doctrine  for  preacher  or  speaker  of 
any  kind  than  the  following,  from  his  Table-Talk,  a 
collection  of  his  sayings,  made  late  in  life,  by  men 
who  were  with  him  daily  :  ' '  Cursed  are  all  preach- 
ers that  aim  at  high  and  hard  things,  neglecting  the 
saving  health  of  the  poor,  unlearned  people,  to  seek 
their  own  honor!  When  I  speak,  I  sink  myself 
deep  down.  I  regard  neither  doctors  nor  magis- 
trates, but  I  have  an  eye  to  the  multitude  of  children 
and  servants.  A  true  and  godly  preacher  should 
talk  for  the  simple  sort,  like  a  mother  that  stills  her 
child,  —  dandling  it,  giving  it  milk  from  her  breast, 
and  not  needing  malmsey  or  muscadine  for  it." 

Luther  is  never  so  lovable  as  when  he  writes  for 
his  intimate  friends,  and  his  wife  and  children. 
Here  is  the  sweet  letter  to  his  little  son,  which,  well- 
known  as  it  is,  may  well  be  read  again  and  again  for 
its  artless  charm  : 

"  Grace  and  peace  in  Christ,  my  dear  little  son  ! 
I  love  to  see  that  you  are  learning  well,  and  pray  dil- 
igently. Go  on  in  that  way,  my  little  boy.  When 
I  come  home,  I  will  bring  you  a  pretty  present.  I 
know  a  pretty,  cheerful  garden.  Many  children  go 
into  it;  they  have  little  golden  coats  on,  and  pick 
beautiful  apples  under  the  trees,  and  pears,  and  cher- 
ries, and  plums ;  they  sing,  jump,  and  are  happy ; 
they  have  nice  little  horses  too,  with  golden  bits 


LUTHER   IN  LITERATURE.  193 

and  silver  saddles.  Then  I  asked  the  man  who  owns 
the  garden  whose  the  children  were.  He  said, 
'  These  are  the  children  that  love  to  pray,  learn,  and 
are  good.'  Then  I  said,  'Dear  sir,  I  have  a  little 
son  too,  called  Johnny  Luther ;  he  would  like  to 
come  into  the  garden  too,  so  that  he  could  see  such 
nice  apples  and  pears,  ride  on  such  handsome  horses, 
and  play  with  these  children.'  'Then,'  said  the 
man,  '  if  he  loves  to  pray,  learns,  and  is  good,  he 
shall  come  into  the  garden,  —  Lippus  and  Jost  too  ; 
and  if  they  all  come  together,  they  shall  have  whis- 
tles, drums,  lutes,  and  all  kinds  of  fiddles  ;  they  shall 
dance  too,  and  shoot  with  little  cross-bows.'  And 
he  showed  me  a  pleasant  meadow  in  the  garden  there, 
arranged  for  dancing ;  there  hung  golden  whistles, 
drums,  and  handsome  silver  cross-bows.  I  said  to 
the  man,  'Ah,  dear  sir,  I  will  go  as  quick  as  I  can 
and  write  all  this  to  my  little  boy,  Johnny,  so  that 
he  may  pray  industriously,  learn  well,  and  be  good, 
so  that  he  can  come  into  the  garden.  But  he  has 
a  nurse,  Lehne  ;  he  must  bring  her  with  him.  Then 
the  man  said,  '  It  shall  be  so  ;  go  and  write  him  so.' 
Therefore,  dear  little  son  Johnny,  learn  and  pray  in 
confidence,  and  tell  Lippus  and  Jost  to  do  so  too. 
Then  you  shall  come  to  the  garden  together." 

The  letter  just  given  was  written  in  1530,  at 
a  most  important  time  ;  when  Luther  carried  his 
life,  as  it  were,  in  his  hand,  and  was  charged  with 
the  heaviest  responsibilities.  He  spent  then  some 
months  in  the  castle  of  Coburg,  to  be  near  at  hand 
for  counsel  during  negotiations  at  Augsburg,  a  city 
to  which  his  friends  dared  not  allow  him  to  pro- 


194  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

ceed,  on  account  of  the  power  of  his  enemies.  In 
the  midst  of  labors  and  dangers  he  could  be  play- 
ful and  gentle.  The  following  letter,  written  to  in- 
timate friends,  is  from  the  same  place  . 

«*  There  is  a  thicket  immediately  before  our  win- 
dow, like  a  little  forest,  where  the  jays  and  the 
crows  are  holding  a  diet.  There  is  such  a  going  to 
and  fro,  such  a  crying  day  and  night,  without  ceas- 
ing, as  if  they  were  all  drunk  or  crazy.  Old  and 
young  chatter  so  confusedly  I  am  surprised  that 
voice  and  breath  can  endure  so  long.  I  should 
much  like  to  know  whether  there  are  any  such  chiv- 
alry with  you  ;  it  seems  to  me  they  must  have  assem- 
bled here  from  the  whole  world  round  about.  I 
have  not  yet  seen  their  kaiser,  but  their  great  people 
parade  and  trail  before  our  eyes,  clothed  not  in  a 
very  costly  way,  but  simply,  all  in  color  of  one 
kind.  They  are  all  alike  black,  and  all  alike  gray- 
eyed,  but  with  a  charming  difference  between  the 
young  and  old.  They  care  not  for  great  palaces 
and  halls  ;  their  hall  is  arched  with  the  beautiful 
broad  heaven,  their  floor  is  paved  with  fresh  green 
branches,  and  their  walls  are  as  wide  as  the  world. 
They  ask  not  for  houses  and  accoutrements.  They 
have  feathered  wheels,  so  that  they  can  fly  from 
the  guns,  and  escape  wrath.  There  are  great,  pow- 
erful lords,  but  what  they  conclude  I  know  not 
as  yet.  So  much  I  learn  from  an  interpreter :  they 
propose  a  mighty  campaign  against  wheat,  barley, 
oats,  and  all  kinds  of  corn  and  grain,  and  many  a 
knight  will  be  here,  and  do  great  deeds.  So,  here 
we  sit  at  the  diet;  listen  and  look  on  with  great 


LUTHER    IN   LITERATURE.  195 

joy  and  love,  seeing  how  the  princes  and  lords, 
with  all  the  high  orders  of  the  empire,  sing  and 
enjoy  themselves  so  merrily.  *  *  *  We  have 
heard  to-day  the  first  nightingale ;  they  have  hesi- 
tated about  trusting  April." 

A  good-hearted  love  for  God's  humble  creatures 
speaks  out  too  in  this  cheerful,  mocking  admoni- 
tion, addressed  to  an  old  servant  : 

"  We  thrushes,  blackbirds,  finches,  jays,  together 
with  other  pious  and  honorable  birds,  who  this 
autumn  are  to  travel  over  Wittenberg,  beg  to  say 
that  we  are  credibly  informed  that  one  Wolfgang 
Lieberger,  your  servant,  has  undertaken  a  great 
piece  of  mischief,  having  bought  dearly  some  old, 
spoiled  nets,  out  of  great  anger  and  hatred  toward 
us,  therewith  to  set  up  an  aviary,  and  proposes  to 
prevent,  not  only  our  dear  friends  the  finches,  but 
us  all,  from  having  the  freedom  of  flying  in  the  air 
and  picking  grains  on  the  earth,  —  the  freedom  given 
us  by  God.  Since,  therefore,  we  poor  free  birds 
are  in  this  way  thrown  into  great  anxiety,  our 
humble  and  friendly  request  to  you  is  that  you  will 
dissuade  your  servant  from  the  mischief.  If  he  can- 
not be  restrained  from  alluring  us  with  corn,  and 
getting  up  in  the  morning  early  to  go  to  his  snares, 
then  we  will  avoid  Wittenberg  in  our  flight.  We 
will  pray  to  God  to  stand  in  his  way,  and  that  he 
may  some  day  see,  instead  of  us,  frogs,  locusts,  and 
snails ;  and  at  night  be  marched  over  by  mice, 
fleas,  and  bed-bugs,  so  that  he  may  forget  us,  and 
not  prevent  our  free  flight.  Given  in  our  heavenly 
seat  under  the  trees." 


196  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

And  now,  at  last,  we  must  speak  of  Luther's 
hymns.  He  first  made  the  chorals  an  essential  part 
of  the  church  service,  putting  a  stamp  upon  them 
which  they  still  retain.  His  songs  are  in  the  peo- 
ple's language,  and  warm  and  joyful  with  faith.  It 
will  quickly  set  the  tears  flowing  in  the  eyes  of  a 
sensitive  listener  to  hear  the  solemn,  powerful 
sweep  of  the  harmony,  as  a  German  congregation 
will  pour  them  out  in  mighty,  uplifting  volume. 
They  spread  swiftly  everywhere,  and  were  received 
with  enthusiasm,  contributing  hardly  less  to  the 
general  reception  of  the  Reformation  than  did  the 
translation  of  the  Bible.  His  opponents  complained 
that  the  people  sang  themselves  often  into  Luther's 
doctrine,  the  Jesuit  Conzenius  saying,  "  The  hymns 
of  Luther  have  killed  more  souls  than  his  books 
and  speeches."  The  number  of  hymns  is  really 
small.  Thirty-seven  are  attributed  to  him,  and  of 
these  only  five  are  entirely  his  own,  the  rest  being 
translations  and  elaborations  of  Latin  and  German 
songs.  It  is  hard  to  feel  their  beauty  and  majesty 
when  taken  from  their  proper  language.  The  most 
famous  of  Luther's  songs  is  "A  Mighty  Fortress  is 
our  God,"  the  battle-hymn  of  the  Protestants  in 
their  day  of  trial,  and  which,  in  the  time  of  its  com- 
position, was  believed  to  have  a  supernatural  power. 
Says  a  writer  of  the  year  1530  :  "  Even  the  devils 
tremble  and  fly  when  they  hear  it, — a  possessed 
person  has  been  freed  from  his  torture  through 
hearing  it."  A  verse  or  two  must  be  given,  al- 
though it  is  so  familiar  perhaps  as  to  make  quota- 
tion unnecessary : 


LUTHER   IN  LITERATURE.  197 

A  mighty  fortress  is  our  God, 

A  bulwark  never  failing; 
Our  helper  He,  amid  the  flood 

Of  mortal  ills  prevailing. 
For  still  our  ancient  foe 
Doth  seek  to  work  us  woe ; 
His  power  and  craft  are  great,  — 
And  armed  with  cruel  hate, 

On  earth  is  not  his  equal. 

And  though  this  world,  with  devils  filled, 

Shall  threaten  to  undo  us, 
We  will  not  fear,  for  God  hath  willed 

His  truth  to  triumph  through  us. 
The  prince  of  darkness  grim, 
We  tremble  not  for  him ; 
His  rage  we  can  endure, 
For  lo !  his  doom  is  sure ; 

One  little  word  can  fell  him.1 

And  here,  for  a  close  to  the  extracts,  are  some 
stanzas  from  "A  Childrens'  Song  for  Christmas, 
about  the  baby  Jesus,"  which  I  render  as  literally 
as  possible  : 

A  babe  to-day  is  born  for  you, 
Of  Mary,  virgin  pure  and  true ; 
A  baby  lovable  and  bright, 
To  be  your  pleasure  and  delight. 

It  is  the  Lord  Christ,  God  indeed ! 
Who  '11  free  you  from  distress  and  need. 
He  will  himself  your  Saviour  be ; 
From  power  of  sin  will  set  you  free. 

Therefore  the  sign  aright  remark, 
The  swaddling-clothes,  the  manger  dark ; 
The  which  the  pretty  babe  do  fold 
Who  all  the  world  doth  keep  and  hold. 


Translation  of  F.  H.  Hedge. 


198  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

Who  is  the  pretty  one  so  mild? 

It  is  the  little  Jesus  child. 

The  sinner  thou  hast  deigned  to  bless : 

O,  welcome,  welcome,  noble  guest ! 

Ah,  Lord !     Thou  source  and  fount  of  all, 
How  then  hast  Thou  become  so  small? 
That  Thou  must  lie  on  withered  grass, 
The  fodder  of  the  ox  and  ass. 

Ah,  little  Jesus !  baby  sweet ! 
Make  for  thyself  a  cradle  meet, 
And  take  Thy  rest  within  my  heart, 
Which  from  Thee  never  more  shall  part. 

Heinrich  Heine  was  a  "  spirit  that  denied," — too 
often  a  Mephistophelean  scoffer,  —  but  he  forgot  his 
sneer  when  speaking  of  Luther.  I  do  not  know 
that  Luther's  position  and  influence  in  literature 
have  been  anywhere  better  estimated,  in  a  few 
words,  than  in  the  following  passage  :l 

"  He  was  not  only  the  greatest,  but  also  the  most 
German,  man  of  our  history.  The  same  man  who 
could  scold  like  a  fish-wife  could  be  soft  too  as  a 
tender  maiden.  He  was  often  wild  as  a  tempest 
which  uproots  an  oak,  and  then  soft  as  a  zephyr 
which  caresses  a  violet.  He  possessed  something 
original,  incomprehensible,  miraculous,  as  we  find 
it  among  all  providential  men.  Glory  to  Luther ! 
Eternal  glory  to  the  beloved  spirit  to  whom  we 
owe  the  saving  of  our  most  precious  possessions, 
and  on  whose  benefits  we  yet  live.  He  gave  to 
the  spirit  its  body,  namely,  to  the  thought  the 
word.  In  his  translation  of  the  Bible  he  created 


Ueber  Deutschland. 


LUTHER   IN  LITERATURE.  199 

the  German  language,  and  the  old  book  is  an 
eternal  source  of  renewal  for  our  tongue.  We  owe 
to  the  grand  Luther  the  spiritual  freedom  which  the 
later  literature  needed  for  its  development.  He  cre- 
ated for  us  the  language  in  which  the  new  literature 
could  express  itself.  He  himself  also  opens  this 
literature  ;  it  begins  with  him  ;  his  spiritual  songs 
are  the  first  important  memorials  of  it,  and  already 
announce  its  particular  character.  Whoever,  there- 
fore, proposes  to  speak  about  modern  German  liter- 
ature must  begin  with  Luther." 

One  day  in  the  old  palace  at  Berlin,  passing  with 
a  knot  of  visitors  through  the  suite  of  magnificent 
apartments,  full  of  the  pomp  and  circumstance  with 
which  the  dynasty — now  perhaps  the  most  power- 
ful on  the  face  of  the  earth  —  surrounds  itself,  we 
passed  under  an  antique,  tarnished  chandelier,  which 
harmonized  but  poorly  with  the  splendor  about  it. 
Nevertheless  it  was  in  a  place  of  honor,  —  a  place 
none  too  good,  I  thought,  when  presently  our  guide 
told  us  it  hung  once  in  the  great  hall  of  the  city  of 
Worms,  and  that  under  it  stood  Luther  when,  in  the 
presence  of  the  emperor  and  princes,  he  defied  the 
great  powers  of  the  earth.  I  found  myself  gazing 
at  the  dull,  quaint  relic  with  an  indescribable  awe. 
"What  a  mighty  part,"  I  thought,  "this  man 
played  on  the  earth  !  After  the  great  biblical  fig- 
ures, there  is  no  man  the  Protestant  world  so  rever- 
ences. I  have  come  to  feel  that  much  held  by  him 
to  be  most  sacred  is  superstition  ;  that  he  too  often 
was  harsh  and  cruel ;  yet  I  find  my  heart  beating 
with  a  quicker  movement  in  presence  of  an  object 


200  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

upon  which  his  eyes  must  once  have  rested.  What- 
ever else  may  be  neglected,  I  will  at  any  rate 
make  a  pilgrimage  to  the  spots  memorable  through 
Luther." 

So  I  followed  in  his  footsteps  to  cottage,  to  clois- 
ter, to  lordly  castle  ;  stood  in  the  little  room  in 
Eisleben  in  which  he  was  born,  hearing,  meanwhile, 
from  a  school  close  by,  the  voices  of  children  sing- 
ing the  chorals  that  he  wrote ;  stood  in  the  room 
in  which  he  died  ;  in  the  venerable  pulpit  too  from 
which  he  preached  for  the  last  time, — the  hour- 
glass, the  cushions  of  leather,  the  worn  staircase, 
the  silent  effigies  upon  the  tombs  below,  all  the 
same  as  in  that  old  day.  Here  too  it  attuned  the 
soul  finely  for  entering  such  a  shrine,  that  as  I  stood 
in  the  door-way  of  the  old  church  the  sound  of  an 
organ  swelled  from  a  school  near  at  hand,  joined 
presently  by  a  chorus  of  boys'  voices  singing  a 
hymn,  sweet  and  powerful,  out  into  the  morning  air. 
On  another  day  I  came  to  Wittenberg,  walking  past 
the  spot  where  he  burned  the  pope's  bull,  in  through 
the  Elster  gate,  into  the  city.  In  the  old  Augustin- 
ian  cloister  I  looked  forth  from  the  ancient  convent, 
from  his  seat, — the  sash,  with  its  small  panes,  for 
the  moment  thrown  back, — down  into  a  sunny 
court,  where  Johnny  and  Lippus  and  Jost  no  doubt 
made  merry  while  Luther,  with  his  Katherine  — 
the  champion  for  a  moment  resting — laughed  at 
their  pranks  and  struck  up  an  air  for  them  on  his 
fiddle.  This  room  must  have  seen  his  agony  when 
he  stood  by  the  death-bed  of  Magdalene ;  here  he 
must  have  been  when  he  interceded  for  the  finches 


LUTHER    IN   LITERATURE.  201 

with  that  ruthless  Wolfgang  Lieberger,  lying  in  wait 
with  his  spoiled  nets  in  the  garden  close  by.  I  stood 
under  the  gray,  weather-beaten  archway  that  re- 
sounded to  his  hammer  as  he  nailed  up  the  ninety-five 
theses,  and  read  reverently  the  epitaph  that  covers 
his  bones.  Entering  Eisenach  through  its  lofty 
gate-tower,  I  went  through  streets  where  he  sang, 
as  a  choir-boy,  in  his  childhood ;  then  climbed  the 
rocky  cliff  to  the  gate  of  the  Wartburg,  that  has  stood 
for  eight  hundred  years.  How  great  memories  jos- 
tle one  another  on  that  noble  height !  The  beau- 
tiful Saint  Elizabeth  of  Hungary  ;  the  tragic  strife 
of  the  Minnesingers  ;  Wolfram  von  Eschenbach,  in 
some  solitary  turret,  dreaming  over  his  Parzival ; 
the  crossed  swords  of  Gustavus  Adolphus  and 
Duke  Bernard  of  Saxe  Weimar ;  relics  of  many  an 
illustrious  prince  and  noble  ;  but  here  as  everywhere 
where  he  trod,  all  is  subordinated  to  the  sturdy  son 
of  the  Thuringian  miner.  You  go  forward,  almost 
impatiently,  until  you  are  shown  the  suit  of  armor 
that  he  wore  as  a  disguise,  helm  and  cuirass  made 
to  fit  an  ample  head  and  breast.  There  you  pause 
long.  You  are  in  the  little  room  where  he  trans- 
lated the  Psalms,  and  struggled,  as  he  believed,  with 
the  veritable  devil.  This  vertebra  of  a  mammoth 
was,  meanwhile,  his  footstool ;  this  table  held  the 
page;  as  he  raised  his  eyes  to  the  window,  those 
lovely  fields  and  forests,  heaving  up  into  magnificent 
hills,  were  the  landscape  upon  which  his  eyes  rested. 
Luther  dominates  everything  at  the  Wartburg,  and 
so  too  at  Coburg.  It  is  a  stronghold  scarcely  less 
imposing.  Luther  was  here  for  four  months,  writ- 


202  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

ing  in  one  of  its  rooms  his  greatest  hymn,  "A 
Mighty  Fortress  is  our  God  " — the  figure  of  that 
opening  line  suggested  by  the  stronghold  itself. 
Seen  from  the  low  valley  of  the  Werra,  the  towering 
central  mass,  within  long  lines  of  gray,  beetling  wall, 
is  full  of  impressive  suggestion.  To  modern  arms 
the  castle  would  offer  only  a  feeble  resistance,  but 
one  can  understand  that  in  Luther's  day  it  must  have 
seemed  of  unassailable  might.  It  has  been  famous 
in  wars  without  number,  and  is  steeped  in  history 
to  the  very  battlements  ;  but  the  potentates  all  fall 
into  the  background ;  their  splendor,  their  illustri- 
ous following,  the  scenes  of  romance,  the  changes  in 
the  fate  of  nations  here  brought  to  pass,  all  forgot- 
ten, while  the  pilgrim  stands  breathless  in  the  room 
in  which  once  wrought  the  Saxon  peasant.  From 
here  he  dictated  to  the  princes  at  Augsburg  the  con- 
ditions on  which  the  fate  of  Europe  was  to  rest ; 
then  leaned  from  the  window  to  catch  the  twittering 
of  the  early  birds  of  the  spring;  then  thundered 
defiance  at  the  devil  in  the  manliest  of  songs. 

But  the  crisis  in  Luther's  life  was  at  Worms. 
Worms  lies  in  the  Rhine  plain,  almost  nothing  re- 
maining of  its  former  grandeur  except  the  ancient 
cathedral  and  still  older  synagogue,  for  Louis  XIV. 
burnt  the  city  to  the  ground.  But  the  landscape  is 
as  of  old.  The  Rhine  winds  quietly  forward  ;  east- 
ward rises  the  dark  outline  of  the  Odenwald,  as  on 
the  day  when  he  rode  forth  from  it,  surrounded  by 
hero-worshippers,  and  singing  his  defiant  hymn. 
Here  Germany  has  done  its  utmost  for  the  man  who 
affected  her  history  more  deeply  than  any  other 


LUTHER   IN   LITERATURE.  203 

mortal,  —  in  the  superb  Luther  memorial.  In  the 
public  park,  in  the  first  place,  there  is  a  broad 
substructure  of  granite,  forty  feet  square.  At  the 
four  corners,  on  pedestals  of  eight  feet  high,  stand 
statues  of  bronze,  of  eight  and  one-half  feet,  repre- 
senting leading  supporters  of  Luther.  To  the  right, 
in  the  foreground,  is  Philip,  landgrave  of  Hesse, 
leaning  on  his  sword,  a  determined,  manly  pres- 
ence ;  to  the  left  is  Friedrich,  elector  of  Saxony, 
also  a  vigorous  figure,  holding  in  his  hand  a  drawn 
sword.  The  other  corners  are  occupied  by  Me- 
lancthon  and  Eeuchlin,  in  scholar's  caps  and  robes,  — 
the  former  a  slender  figure  and  sharp,  meagre  face, 
the  latter  handsome  in  countenance  and  bearing. 
One  side  of  the  square  is  open.  On  the  three  other 
sides  —  between  the  statues  just  described  —  sit 
symbolical  figures  representing  cities  which  played 
an  important  part  in  the  convulsion  of  the  Reforma- 
tion. One  is  Magdeburg,  with  head  and  figure 
bowed,  a  broken  sword  in  her  hand,  and  a  face  Ml 
of  pain.  The  city  was  laid  waste  by  the  Catholic 
leader,  Tilly,  with  terrible  devastation.  One  is 
Speyer,  where  a  body  of  reformers  presented  a  note- 
worthy protest,  and  hence  began  to  be  called  Protes- 
tants. The  figure  sits  with  a  face  full  of  spirit,  and 
arm  raised,  in  an  attitude  as  if  it  would  push  away 
something  thrust  upon  it.  The  third  figure  repre- 
sents Augsburg,  calm  and  upright,  with  the  palm 
of  peace  in  her  hand,  for  here  it  was  that  accommo- 
dations were  reached  between  the  rival  parties. 

Coming  now   from  the  outside  of  the  square  to 
the  centre,  we  have  the  great  heart  of  the  thing. 


204  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

Five  statues  of  bronze  are  grouped  together  on  a 
polished  base  of  sienite,  a  beautiful  stone  of  the 
hardest  composition.  One  is  Huss,  wrapped  in  his 
gown,  holding  between  his  hands  a  crucifix,  on  which 
his  eyes  are  reverently  bent,  —  a  face  spare,  calm, 
and  full  of  devotion.  Back  of  him  sits  Wicklifie,  in 
scholar's  attire,  with  a  contemplative  mien.  Next 
is  Peter  Waldus,  founder  of  the  Waldensians,  a 
picturesque  beggar-monk,  and  in  the  bronze  you 
can  see  the  ragged  edges  of  his  frock,  the  rough 
sandals,  and  the  coarse  wrappings  about  his  legs. 
But  a  figure  finer  than  that  of  any  yet  described  is 
that  of  Savonarola,  the  great  Italian,  martyred  in 
1498  for  heroic  speech.  It  is  wonderfully  living. 
He  sits  with  arm  uplifted ;  a  cowl  wraps  the  head, 
from  which  a  striking,  earnest  face  looks  out,  the 
nose  and  lips  full  of  courage.  One  hand  holds  the 
robe  at  the  throat,  the  other  is  thrown  out  in  im- 
passioned gesture.  The  robe  falls  lightly  over  the 
lower  limbs,  which  are  disposed  as  if  the  man  were 
just  springing  to  his  feet  in  the  ardor  of  his  appeal. 
It  is  startling  in  its  life-like  presentment. 

And  now,  from  the  midst  of  all, — from  the  princes 
whose  power  shielded  him,  the  scholars  who  held  up 
his  hands,  and  the  mighty  martyrs  who  died  that  the 
fulness  of  time  might  come,  and  he  and  his  work 
might  live, — towers  the  colossal  Luther.  The  statue 
is  ten  feet  and  one-half  high.  From  the  great 
shoulders  a  scholar's  gown  falls  to  the  feet.  One 
foot  is  advanced ;  his  clenched  right  hand  is  on  the 
cover  of  a  Bible,  which  he  holds  folded  in  his  left 
arm.  It  is  as  if  a  hallowed  magnetic  current  from 


LUTHER    IN  LITERATURE.  205 

a  reservoir  of  supernatural  power  were  charging 
his  whole  frame  with  a  more  than  giant's  force. 
The  head  is  bare,  the  face  upturned,  the  lips 
parted.  That  Titan  Luther  face  !  and  beneath  are 
cut  the  words  which  he  uttered  before  the  diet, 
some  tone  of  which  may  have  been  borne  in  the  air 
as  far  as  the  spot  where  the  memorial  now  rises : 
"Here  I  stand;  I  cannot  do  otherwise;  God  help 
me."  It  is  very,  very  grand,  commemorating  glori- 
ously as  manly  and  consecrated  a  warfare  waged 
against  evil  as  the  earth  has  ever  seen;  and  the 
sight  of  the  great  figures  brings  the  whole  hot 
battle  most  powerfully  home  to  whoever  stands  be- 
fore it,  —  the  princes  with  their  swords,  the  brows 
of  the  scholars  grown  spare  through  earnest  con- 
troversy, the  brandished  hand  of  Savonarola,  elo- 
quent with  denunciation,  and  towering  highest  the 
great  shoulders  of  Luther  !  We  see  the  parted  lips, 
the  lines  ploughed  by  spiritual  struggle,  the  rugged 
brows,  the  clenched  fist  resting  on  the  Bible,  the 
figure  braced  back  for  a  mighty  shock,  as  if  he  be- 
held in  the  air  before  him  rank  on  rank  of  mitred 
prelates  and  crowned  rulers,  and  in  the  background 
the  stake  and  fagots. 

No  worthier  pilgrimage  can  be  made  to-day  than 
in  the  footsteps  of  Luther.  Stand  in  the  little  house 
where  he  was  born  ;  see  the  humble  room  in  which 
was  the  hearth-stone  of  his  home,  the  pulpits  in 
which  he  thundered,  the  palaces  in  which  his  sturdy 
presence,  in  his  coarse  scholar's  robe,  threw  into  in- 
significance the  splendor  of  princes  ;  last  of  all,  stand 
in  the  market-place  of  Worms  ! 


CHAPTER    IX. 

THE    THIRTY    YEARS'    WAR. 

From  the  death  of  Luther,  in  1546,  to  the  appear- 
ing of  Lessing,  two  hundred  years  later,  there  is 
little  German  literature  which  requires  from  us 
more  than  the  briefest  notice.  It  is  proper  that 
mention  should  be  made  of  the  causes  which  pro- 
duced so  long  a  silence  ;  for  want  of  a  literature  to 
consider,  let  us  for  awhile  turn  to  history.  In  the 
preceding  chapter,  allusion  was  made  to  Gothe's 
condemnation  of  Luther.  It  seems  almost  impious 
to  call  in  question  the  value  of  the  Reformer's 
work,  —  almost  as  if  one  should  speak  of  the  career 
of  the  Apostle  Paul  as  a  failure ;  and  we  are  not  to 
understand,  I  take  it,  that  Gothe  would  deny  the 
power  and  sincerity  of  the  man.  Luther  felt  that 
he  must  break  his  way,  in  the  words  of  that  line  of 
his  mighty  hymn,  "through  this  world,  with  devils 
filled."  Never  were  the  powers  infernal  more  vig- 
orously fought,  and  to  this  day  we  feel  a  tremor 
from  the  stamp  of  his  foot.  With  all  my  heart  I 
acknowledge  the  grandeur  of  the  figure  as  he  towers 
in  history  ;  and  yet  we  cannot  open  the  story  of  the 
Thirty  Years'  War  without  being  in  a  mood  to  be- 
lieve that  any  man — whatever  his  virtues  —  who 
was  influential  in  bringing  upon  .the  world  that 


THE    THIRTY    YEARS'    WAR.  207 

total  eclipse  of  things  bright  and  good,  had  a  hand 
in  the  infliction  of  a  curse  for  which  scarcely  any 
beneficence  could  atone ;  that  the  view  of  Gothe 
was  not  entirely  without  reason. 

Luther's  own  century  was  a  time  of  wrangling, 
rather  than  actual  warfare.  Most  uncompromising 
and  exhaustless  of  disputants  was  Luther  himself, 
whose  tongue  was  indeed  a  two-edged  sword,  and 
whose  pen  was  dipped  in  gall.  But  tongue  and  pen 
were  his  only  weapons,  and  his  successors,  for  some 
generations,  fought  their  battles  in  halls  of  debate 
and  upon  parchment  fields,  rather  than  with  pike 
and  musket.  Charles  V.,  indeed,  and  the  princes 
of  the  Smalcaldic  League  fell  into  sterner  contro- 
versy. At  Miihlberg,  on  the  Elbe,  toward  the 
middle  of  the  century,  John,  elector  of  Saxony 
and  head  of  the  Protestant  cause,  underwent  defeat ; 
and  a  little  later  Charles  himself,  with  the  brave 
and  cunning  Maurice  of  Saxony  close  upon  his 
tracks,  fled  from  Germany  in  haste  through  the 
passes  of  Tyrol.  But  the  spirit  of  this  time  was  a 
benignant  genius  in  comparison  with  the  fury  who 
flapped  woe  unutterable  from  her  gloomy  wings 
upon  the  Germany  of  the  succeeding  age. 

In  the  early  years  of  the  seventeenth  century 
Ferdinand  II.  came  to  his  own, — the  headship  of 
the  hereditary  states  of  Austria  and  the  Holy 
Roman  Empire.  He  was  the  mightiest  prince  upon 
the  face  of  the  earth,  able  and  persistent,  a  pupil  of 
the  Jesuits,  and  devoted  to  their  policy.  The  Bo- 
hemians, who  had  revolted  from  him,  chose  as  their 
king  a  young  potentate  of  Western  Germany, — 


208  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

Friedrich,  Elector  Palatine.  A  year  or  two  be- 
fore, this  young  man  had  gone  to  England,  and, 
amid  feasting  and  the  performance  of  brilliant 
masques,  which  the  Elizabethan  poets  furnished, 
married  the  lovely  sister  of  the  prince  who  was 
soon  to  be  Charles  I.  Heidelberg  castle  is  to-day 
a  place  of  princely  magnificence,  devastated  though 
it  has  been  by  time  and  powder-bursts,  and  nothing 
about  the  castle  is  fairer  than  the  English  garden, 
on  its  terrace  three  hundred  feet  above  the  Neckar. 
This  was  the  home  to  which  Friedrich  brought  his 
wife ;  here  he  ruled,  and  the  Princess  Elizabeth, 
walking  in  the  garden  laid  out  in  her  honor,  with 
her  husband's  statue  among  the  ivy  on  the  wall 
above,  —  as  it  stands  to-day,  —  could  behold  as 
lovely  a  domain  as  Heaven  had  ever  given  into 
the  hands  of  a  prince.  When  at  length,  how- 
ever, the  Bohemians  offered  Friedrich  their  crown 
and  he  hesitated,  the  princess  is  reported  to  have 
said,  "  Thou  hast  married  the  daughter  of  a  king, 
and  fearest  to  accept  a  kingly  crown !  I  would 
rather  eat  black  bread  at  thy  royal  board  than 
feast  at  thy  electoral  table."  So  Friedrich  went 
out  into  the  storms  after  a  crown.  Presently  he 
was  a  fugitive,  for  Ferdinand  swept  through  Bohe- 
mia with  sword  and  fire,  and  the  conflagration 
spread  to  the  world  outside.  The  Protestants  were 
disunited,  and  often  lukewarm.  Among  their  lead- 
ers were  brilliant  soldiers,  but  the  emperor  was, 
for  ten  years,  resistless.  To  the  Rhine  on  the 
west,  and  northward,  even  throughout  Denmark,  his 
armies  marched,  and  burned,  and  slew.  Through 


THE    THIRTY    YEARS'    WAR.  209 

rough  conversion  the  adherents  of  the  Church  were 
multiplied  ;  the  Protestants  opposed  in  battle  order  ; 
the  emperor's  armies  passed ;  the  Protestants  still 
were  ranked  in  rows,  but  they  were  rows  of  graves. 
Meantime  the  keenest  eye  that  ever  watched  the 
complications  of  politics  was  fixed  anxiously  on  the 
course  of  events.  Kichelieu  saw  humiliation  for 
France  in  the  aggrandizement  of  Ferdinand,  and 
found  means  to  curb  the  conqueror. 

In  a  room  of  the  fortress  of  Coburg  hang  side  by 
side  the  life-size  portraits  of  two  martial  figures,  in 
the  military  dress  of  two  hundred  and  fifty  years 
ago.  One  of  them  is  the  chief  instrument  through 
whom  Ferdinand  succeeded  in  making  himself  om- 
nipotent in  Germany,  —  Wallenstein,  duke  of  Fried- 
land  ;  the  other  is  the  instrument  through  whom, 
together  with  Richelieu,  the  emperor's  power  was 
broken,  —  Gustavus  Adolphus,  king  of  Sweden. 
The  portrait  of  Gustavus  represents  a  man  of  tall, 
large  frame,  with  light  hair,  large,  intense  blue  eyes, 
a  full  lower  face,  with  the  pointed  mustaches  and 
chin-beard  of  the  time,  in  attire  of  blue  and  buff, 
set  oif  with  point-lace ;  a  man,  one  would  say,  of 
action  rather  than  thought,  with  a  full  store  of  im- 
petuous will,  and  sound  stomach  and  muscles  for 
carrying  out  his  purposes.  The  healthful  counte- 
nance too  has  suggestions  of  warm  temper,  but  also 
of  joviality;  and  one  thinks  that  the  capacious 
doublet  might  upon  occasion  shake  mightily  with 
laughter, — a  figure  of  bearing  most  manly,  frank, 
and  winning.  The  figure  of  Wallenstein  is  also 
tall,  but  meagre,  in  gloomy  attire,  with  hair  dark, 


210  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

but  showing  a  reddish  tinge,  a  complexion  some- 
what sallow,  forehead  high  rather  than  broad,  and 
small,  sparkling  eyes,  —  a  countenance  and  mien 
that  repel  approach,  as  the  open  face  and  bearing 
of  the  companion  picture  court  it.  Hung  about  the 
pictures  are  arms  and  armor  of  the  time  in  which 
the  two  leaders  played  their  part, — the  steel  caps  and 
cuirasses,  the  pikes  and  muskets,  still  gleaming  be- 
fore the  portraits  as  they  gleamed  before  the  living 
eyes  of  these  men. 

No  leader  ever  fell  more  gloriously,  or  left  be- 
hind a  purer  fame,  than  Gustavus.  He  fought  for 
a  grand  cause,  and  if  there  was  in  his  motive  a 
taint  of  selfishness,  history  scarcely  mentions  it.1 
He  was-  tolerant,2  devout,  and  fearless.  Perhaps 
no  man  was  ever  more  loved.  Wallenstein  is  & 
character,  in  a  certain  sense,  even  more  fascinat- 
ing,— a  saturnine,  inscrutable  personage, — as  Gus- 
tavus was  cheerful  and  frank.  Although  the  leader 
of  the  Catholic  party,  he  was  religionless,  as  the 


1  See,  however,  Gfrorer :  Das  Leben  Gustav  Adolfs. 

2  "Gustave  Adolphe,  e"leve"  dans  les  sentiments  e"troits  d'une  e"glise 
aussi  intole'rante  que  le  Catholicisme,  e"tonna  et  scandal  isa  ses  amis 
d'Allemagne,  en  assistant  a  la  messe.     II  traita  avec  une  rare  in- 
dulgence ses  plus  grands  ennemis,  les  moines,  meme  les  jesuites. 
Les  Protestants  ne  comprenaient  pas  le  h6ros  du  nord ;  les  historiens 
modernes  ne  le  comprennent  pas  davantage,  quand  ils  attribuent  a 
des  calculs  politiques  des  sentiments  qui  e"taient  1' instinct  du  ge"nie. 
II  y  a  un  trait  qui  le  caract4rise  admirablement ;  il  se  fit  aimer  des 
Catholiques  comme  des  Protestants,  et  les   cbroniqueurs  contem- 
porains  lui  sont  to  us  e"galement  favorables,  a  quelque  parti  qu'ils  ap- 
partiennent.    La  religion  de  Gustave  Adolphe  est  la  religion  de 
1'avenir,  de  I'humanite".      II  plane  au-dessus  des  confessions   et  de 
leur  haineuses  Hyalite's."  — F.  Laurent,  Les  Guerres  de  la  Religion. 


THE    THIRTY    YEARS'    WAR.  211 

king  was  religious,  and  given  over,  as  the  world  has 
believed,  to  mysterious  superstition,  for  want  of  a 
better  faith;  a  practitioner  of  magic  and  patron 
of  astrology ;  a  man  of  such  genius  that  the  world 
gave  way  before  him  in  a  marvellous  manner,  until 
he  was  believed  by  others — and  came  probably  to 
believe  himself — a  sort  of  superhuman  being, 
bearing  a  charmed  life.  Although  concerned  with 
much  ruthlessness,  there  is  some  reason  to  believe 
that  he  sought  to  mitigate  it,  and  at  last  to  bring 
the  warfare  to  an  end.1  To  some  extent  he  may 
have  felt  he  was  absolved  from  ordinary  human 
obligations,  and  he  seemed  often,  in  a  wonderful 
way,  shielded  against  the  operation  of  natural  laws. 
On  his  character  and  the  events  of  his  career  the 
lights  rest  so  wierdly  that  from  that  time  to  this  he 
has  always  attracted  romantic  spirits.  He  won 
little  affection  from  men,  but  by  a  strange  force, 
while  he  repelled,  he  subordinated  men  about  him  by 
the  thousand.  Half  the  world  Gustavus  drew  by 
love  ;  the  other  half  Wallenstein  held  subdued  in  an 
inexplicable  awe.  The  two  figures  contrast  most 
picturesquely  in  history,  as  they  do  in  the  pictures 
at  Coburg.  They  confront  one  another  like  the  two 
opposite  poles  of  a  magnet,  about  whom  —  while  one 
attracted  hearts,  and  the  other  beat  back  all  other 
wills  —  the  world  stood  polarized.  Since  these  are 
the  most  interesting  characters  of  the  Thirty  Years' 
War,  we  may  look  at  them  still  longer. 

Wallenstein  was  the  son  of  a  poor  Protestant  gen- 

1  Forster. 


212  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

tleman,  of  a  family  that  had  emigrated  from  Germany 
to  Bohemia.  He  rose  from  obscurity  only  by  the 
most  gradual  steps.  He  studied  at  the  University  of 
Padua,  in  Italy,  but  left  it  for  a  soldier's  life,  serv- 
ing first  against  the  Turks  in  some  most  humble 
capacity  ;  for  not  until  he  had  been  in  several  cam- 
paigns do  we  find  him  in  command  of  a  company  of 
infantry.  Wealth  came  to  him  by  a  fortunate  mar- 
riage, and  was  rapidly  swelled  by  prudent  —  perhaps 
unscrupulous  —  management.  When  at  length  a 
widower,  a  second  marriage  with  a  lady  of  rank 
lifted  him  still  higher  in  the  scale.  With  each  rise 
very  marvellous  ability  became  more  and  more  man- 
ifest, and  at  the  outbreak  of  the  Thirty  Years'  War 
he  soon  surpassed  all  by  his  successes.  Tilly,  an  old 
Walloon  in  the  service  of  the  Duke  of  Bavaria,  a 
pupil  in  war  of  Alva,  and  as  able  and  cruel,  was  for 
a  time  his  rival,  but  he  was  soon  distanced.  At 
length  even  the  princes  of  the  empire  took  alarm, 
and  demanded  Wallenstein's  deposition.  Friedland 
had  marched  and  fought  from  Italy  to  the  northern 
provinces  of  Denmark,  from  the  Turkish  frontier  to 
the  border  of  Holland,  —  everywhere  effective.  The 
emperor's  power  seemed  perfectly  secure,  and  he 
felt  that  Friedland  could  be  spared.  As  Wallen- 
stein  laid  down  his  baton  of  command,  one  hundred 
thousand  men  were  without  a  leader.  He  lived,  with- 
drawn, at  Prague,  in  a  strange  magnificence,  which 
was  at  the  same  time  full  of  gloom.  Just  then  it 
was,  in  the  year  1630,  that  Gustavus  Adolphus 
stepped  upon  the  shore  of  North  Germany,  kneeling 
at  once  among  his  followers  to  pray  for  the  blessing 


THE    THIRTY    YEARS'    WAR.  213 

of  God  upon  his  undertaking.  His  coffers  were 
well  filled  with  the  gold  of  France,  his  ranks  with 
Swedish  manhood,  and  he  became  dangerous  at  once. 
Never  was  the  foot  of  conqueror  more  speedy  ;  never 
was  the  acclaim  fuller  upon  the  progress 'of  a  de- 
liverer than  that  which  at  length  went  up  for  him. 
He  smote  the  outposts, — then  Tilly,  now  sole  cham- 
pion, at  Leipsig,  with  utter  overthrow.  He  was  at 
once  in  the  centre  of  Germany  ;  then,  as  if  winged, 
in  the  South.  With  another  dart,  the  Rhine  was 
passed,  and  the  great  imperial  fortresses  toppled  and 
fell  like  a  row  of  child's  blocks.  Tilly  made  one 
more  effort,  at  the  Lech,  in  Bavaria ;  but  his  army 
fled,  and  he  was  carried  dying  from  the  field. 
Great  was  the  tumult  at  the  court  of  the  emperor. 
Would  injured  Wallenstein  come  forth  from  the 
splendor  of  his  palace,  or  was  there  no  further  help  ? 
Humbly  they  approached  him,  withdrawn  and  ec- 
centric, and  forth  at  once  he  came.  His  demand — 
at  once  acceded  to  —  was  that  he  was  to  be  supreme 
in  the  host  he  should  raise  ;  not  even  the  emperor  was 
to  set  foot  within  it,  or  prescribe  to  him  a  course. 
As  he  stepped  forth  there  was  no  military  power ; 
before  the  Swedes  the  armies  had  become  fugitive. 
In  a  day,  as  it  were,  he  became  mighty.  As  the 
children  of  Hamelin  followed  the  pied  piper,  so  the 
recruiting  drums  of  the  somewhat  fantastic  hero  had 
a  spell  to  summon,  hurrying  from  every  corner  of 
Europe,  the  wild  spirits  that  swarm  in  times  of  disor- 
der. Gustavus  turned  to  crush  him  ;  no  less  prompt 
than  the  Swede,  Wallenstein  met  him  face  to  face. 
At  Nuremberg  he  held  the  faming  king  in  durance, 


214  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

starving  him  slowly,  refusing  to  draw  out  upon  the 
field.  Gustavus — desperate — hurled  his  force  upon 
the  impregnable  lines  of  Wallenstein  ;  the  latter 
kept  rigidly  to  the  defensive,  satisfied  thus  far  to 
repel,  and  not  destroy.  Gustavus  withdrew,  the  un- 
conquered  foe  in  his  rear.  Wallenstein  marched 
suddenly  northward,  leaving  his  entrenchments ; 
Gustavus  was  instantly  upon  his  track,  seeking  his 
opportunity.  The  former  reaches  Leipsig,  the  lat- 
ter Naumburg  ;  between  the  two  lies  the  little  Saxon 
village  of  Ltitzen,  —  and  here  let  us  take  a  closer 
look. 

I  reached  Leipsig  on  a  dav  of  doubtful  weather, 
and  went  soon  to  the  old  tower  of  the  Pleissenburg, 
the  citadel  of  the  town,  and  looked  out  from  the 
summit  into  the  wide  plains.  The  castellan  went 
with  me  to  the  top,  and  between  the  showers  pointed 
out  to  me  the  memorable  spots.  Right  here  have 
taken  place  an  astonishing  number  of  the  great  bat- 
tles of  the  world.  The  field  of  Jena,  where  the 
French  shattered  the  Prussian  power  in  1806,  is  not 
so  far  away  that  the  cannon-thunder  from  there 
might  not  have  been  heard  at  Leipsig ;  and  Ross- 
bach — perhaps  Frederick's  most  memorable  field — 
where  Prussia  shattered  France  in  1757,  is  hardly 
out  of  sight.  Ten  miles  away,  again,  is  the  village 
of  Gross  Gorschen,  where,  in  the  spring  of  1813, 
Napoleon  smote  the  Russians  and  Prussians,  and  did 
something  to  win  back  the  prestige  lost  during  the 
Russian  campaign.  All  about  the  city,  and  within  it, 
took  place,  in  the  fall  of  1813,  the  mighty  "battle 
of  the  nations,"  in  which  seven  hundred  thousand 


THE    THIRTY    YEARS'    WAR.  215 

combatants  took  part.  The  environing  fields  where 
this  was  fought  lay  all  in  the  deepest  peace  as  I 
looked  down  upon  them  ;  in  the  distance  the  rain- 
bows among  the  mist ;  near  at  hand  the  broad  levels, 
green  and  dripping  with  the  abundant  moisture. 
The  grain  stood  everywhere,  the  country  stretching, 
smooth  and  unbroken  almost  as  natural  prairie,  to 
the  verge  of  the  horizon.  A  straight  line  of  pop- 
lars or  fruit-trees  here  and  there  marked  a  high- 
road ;  now  and  then  there  was  a  clump  of  wood,  or 
the  compact  roofs  and  steeple  of  a  village.  I  could 
see  the  monument,  surmounted  by  a  cocked  hat, 
where  Napoleon  stood  on  the  decisive  day,  while 
Macdonald,  Augereau  and  Eegnier  fought  in  front 
of  him,  outnumbered  two  to  one  ;  and  the  castellan 
told  how  the  cannonade  (from,  some  say,  two  thou- 
sand pieces)  sounded  into  his  childish  ears,  coming 
muffled,  as  he  sat  shut  up  with  his  frightened  mother 
in  the  city,  his  chin  moving,  as  he  represented  the 
booming,  like  a  man's  whose  teeth  chatter  with 
cold. 

Following  the  old  man's  pointing  finger  again,  I 
saw,  just  beyond  the  city's  suburbs,  the  steeple  and 
windmill  of  Breitenfeld,  where,  in  the  Thirty  Years' 
War,  the  Swede,  Torstenson  —  a  cripple,  who  was 
carried  about  in  a  litter,  and  yet  one  of  the  most 
vigorous  of  commanders  —  defeated  the  army  of  the 
Austrian  kaiser ;  and  where  a  few  years  before,  on 
the  same  ground,  fierce  old  Till}'-  first  suffered  de- 
feat, and  Gustavus  Adolphus  first  made  his  great- 
ness felt.  To  this  hour,  in  old  New  England  fami- 
lies, any  piece  of  especial  deviltry  is  "  like  old 


216  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

Tilly  ; ' '  and  probably  the  phrase  comes  clear  from 
the  Puritans  of  1631,  who,  like  the  rest  of  the  Prot- 
estant world,  were  made  to  stand  aghast  by  the 
sack  of  Magdeburg.  But  there  is  pathos  as  well  as 
horror  in  the  story  of  the  unrelenting  old  tiger. 
He  was  brave  and  faithful  and  honest  as  he  was 
cruel,  and,  in  spite  of  all  his  plundering,  died  poor. 
At  Dresden  you  may  see  his  baton,  the  pearl  and 
gilding  as  tarnished  as  its  former  possessor's  fame. 
A  singular  figure  he  must  have  been  ;  generally  in 
a  Spanish  doublet  of  bright  green  satin,  with  slashed 
sleeves  ;  on  his  head  a  little  cocked  hat,  from  which 
a  red  ostrich  feather  hung  down  his  back ;  under 
this  a  long  nose,  withered  cheeks,  and  a  heavy  white 
mustache,  —  for  he  was  past  seventy.  But  it  was 
more  thrilling  to  me  even  than  Breitenfeld,  when, 
looking  westward,  I  saw  dimly  through  the  mist  the 
little  steeple  of  Liitzen,  ten  miles  distant,  where 
Gustavus  Adolphus  fell. 

Leaving  the  tower  of  the  Pleissenburg,  I  took  the 
train  to  Markranstatt,  a  village  in  the  suburbs,  from 
which  it  was  my  plan  to  walk  the  league  to  Liitzen 
in  the  long  summer  twilight,  crossing  the  battle- 
field on  the  way.  The  high-road  runs  as  it  did  two 
hundred  years  ago,  —  broad,  white,  and  smooth. 
That  evening  it  had  been  washed  clean  by  the  rain, 
and  cherry-trees,  full  of  ripening  fruit,  stood  in 
fullest  freshness  on  either  hand.  Oii  the  far-extend- 
ing fields  each  side  the  grain  stood  high,  —  barley, 
wheat,  rye,  and  oats  rolled  out  in  parallel  strips.  It 
was  after  sunset  when  the  Liitzen  ' '  Eilwagen ' '  went 
past  with  its  passengers ;  the  pedestrians  disap- 


THE    THIRTY    YEARS'    WAR.  217 

peared  one  after  another,  and  soon  I  was  the  solitary 
footman.  The  dusk  kept  deepening  as  I  sauntered 
forward,  my  mind  filled  with  thoughts  of  the  strug- 
gle whose  scene  I  was  soon  to  behold.  It  was  a 
dark  day  in  November,  1632,  when  a  heavy  triple 
boom  of  cannon-thunder  from  Weissenfels,  ten  miles 
westward,  apprised  Wallenstein,  lying  at  Leipsig, 
that  the  Austrian  general  at  that  outpost  had  caught 
eight  of  the  advancing  Swedes.  Defoe,  in  the  little- 
known"  Memoirs  of  a  Cavalier,"  has  so  photographed 
this  stormy  time  that  his  story  was  long  believed  to 
come  from  an  eye-witness.  His  hero — then  a  cap- 
tive with  Wallenstein  in  Leipsig  —  says  :  ' '  We  that 
were  prisoners  fancied  the  imperial  soldiers  went 
unwillingly  out,  for  the  very  name  of  the  king 
of  Sweden  was  become  terrible  to  them.  Kugged, 
surly  fellows  they  were,"  he  declared.  "Their 
faces  had  an  air  of  hardy  courage,  mangled  with 
wounds  and  scars  ;  their  armor  showed  the  bruises 
of  musket-bullets  and  the  rust  of  the  winter  storms. 
I  observed  of  them  their  clothes  were  always  dirty, 
but  their  arms  were  clean  and  bright ;  they  were 
used  to  camp  in  the  open  fields  and  sleep  in  the 
frosts  and  rain ;  their  horses  were  strong  and  hardy, 
like  themselves,  and  well  taught  their  exercises." 
It  is  not  hard  to  draw  a  picture  of  Gustavus'  army 
as  it  advanced.  It  was  a  mixed  host  of  twenty 
thousand.  The1  best  warriors  were  Swedes,  —  men 
yellow-haired  and  florid,  marching  with  the  vigor  of 
troops  used  to  success  and  confident  in  their  leader ; 
not  a  straggler,  not  a  plunderer.  They  wore,  some 
suits  of  leather,  others  of  cloth.  They  carried  pikes 


218  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

or  flint-lock  muskets.  One  regiment  was  in  buff, 
and  so  known  as  the  yellow  regiment ;  others  were 
in  blue  ;  others  in  white.  There  was  powerful  cav- 
alry, the  riders  half-way  between  the  steel-covered 
knight  of  former  warfare  and  the  modern  horseman . 
The  cannon  (they  were  the  first  "field-batteries") 
were,  singularly  enough,  composed  of  cylinders  of 
iron,  cast  thin  for  lightness,  then  wound  round 
tightly  with  rope,  from  breech  to  muzzle,  and  cov- 
ered at  last  with  boiled  leather.  There  were  Ger- 
mans as  well  as  Swedes,  and  among  these  rode  as 
leader  a  young  man  of  twenty-eight,  who,  however, 
for  ten  years  already  had  been  a  warrior  of  fame,  and 
was  destined  to  be  yet  more  famous.  His  portrait 
too  hangs  by  that  of  his  teacher  in  war  and  friend — 
Gustavus —  at  Coburg,  the  features  most  hand- 
some, and  a  profusion  of  curling  brown  hair  falling 
upon  the  shoulders.  His  rusted  sword  too,  with 
that  of  the  king,  hangs  upon  a  pillar  in  the  Wart- 
burg,  by  the  side  of  the  pulpit  from  which  Luther 
used  to  preach.  It  was  Duke  Bernhard,  of  Saxe- 
Weimar.  There  were  also  whole  troops  of  English 
and  Scotch,  for  the  fame  of  the  king  drew  recruits 
from  every  Protestant  land,  who  no  doubt,  some- 
times among  psalms,  hummed  the  quaint  recruiting- 
song,  which  antiquaries  tell  us  had  a  great  popu- 
larity at  the  period,  and  did  much  to  stimulate  en- 
listment : 


German!,  Suedden,  Denmark  are  smoking 
With  a  crew  of  brave  lads,  others  provoking. 
Up,  lads !  up,  lads !  up  and  advance, 
For  honor  is  not  gotten  by  a  cringe  or  a  dance. 


THE    THIRTY    YEARS1    WAR.  219 

Charge,  lads !  fall  in  around, 

Till  Caesar  shall  give  ground ! 

Hark!  hark!  our  trumpets  sound,  Tan!  ta-ra-ra! 

Vivat  Gustavus  Adolphus !  we  cry, 

Here  we  shall  either  win  honor  or  dy. 


The  king  himself  had  a  wide-brimmed  hat,  in 
which  he  sometimes  wore  a  feather  of  green,  and  a 
suit  made  in  great  part  from  buff  leather,  with  boots 
of  wide,  slouching  tops.  His  nobles,  Horn,  Banier, 
Torstenson — famous  then  and  afterwards,  martial 
in  aspect,  but  not  splendid — rode  beside  him.  As 
he  swept  along  the  column,  the  blue-eyed  youths 
from  Smaland  and  Gothland,  and  the  darker  Finns, 
grave  and  self-willed,  —  at  that  time  his  subjects, — 
looked  at  him  with  love  and  pride,  and  marched 
firmly  along  the  muddy  road,  where  they  sank  some- 
times to  the  knee.  N  » 

Here  is  a  bit  of  graphic  prose  from  the  hand  that 
gave  us  "Robinson  Crusoe,"  that  will  let  us  into 
what  had  just  before  been  the  life  of  this  army. 
Gustavus  is  about  to  cross  the  Lech,  where  Tilly 
receives  his  death-wound  : 

"  The  king  resolved  to  go  and  view  the  situation 
of  the  enemy.  His  majesty  went  out  the  second  of 
April,  with  a  strong  party  of  horse,  which  I  had  the 
honor  to  command ;  we  marched  as  near  as  we 
could  to  the  banks  of  the  river,  not  to  be  too  much 
exposed  to  the  enemy's  cannon,  and  having  gained 
a  little  height,  where  the  whole  course  of  the  river 
might  be  seen,  the  king  halted  and  commanded  to 
draw  up.  The  king  alighted,  and,  calling  me  to 
him,  examined  every  reach  and  turning  of  the  river 


220  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

by  his  glass  ;  but  finding  the  river  run  a  long  and 
almost  straight  course,  he  could  find  no  place  which 
he  liked;  but  at  last,  turning  himself  north,  and 
looking  down  the  stream,  he  found  the  river,  fetch- 
ing a  long  reach,  double  short  upon  itself,  making 
a  round  and  very  narrow  point.  '  There's  a  point 
will  do  our  business,'  says  the  king,  '  and  if  the 
ground  be  good,  I  '11  pass  there ;  let  Tilly  do  his 
worst.' 

"  He  immediately  ordered  a  small  party  of  horse 
to  view  the  ground,  and  to  bring  him  word  particu- 
larly how  high  the  bank  was  on  each  side  and  at  the 
point.  'And  he  shall  have  fifty  dollars,'  says  the 
king,  '  that  will  bring  me  word  how  deep  the  water 
is.'  I  asked  his  majesty  leave  to  let  me  go, 
which  he  would  by  no  means  allow  of;  but  as  the 
party  was  drawing  out,  a  sergeant  of  dragoons 
told  the  king,  if  he  pleased  to  let  him  go  disguised 
as  a  boor,  he  would  bring  him  an  account  of  every- 
thing he  desired.  The  king  liked  the  notion  well 
enough,  and  the  fellow,  being  very  well  acquainted 
with  the  country,  puts  on  a  ploughman's  habit  and 
went  away  immediately,  with  a  long  pole  upon  his 
shoulder ;  the  horse  lay  all  this  while  in  the  woods, 
and  the  king  stood,  undiscerned  by  the  enemy,  on 
the  little  hill  aforesaid.  The  dragoon,  with  his  long 
pole,  comes  boldly  down  to  the  bank  of  the  river, 
and  calling  to  the  sentinels  which  Tilly  had  placed 
on  the  other  bank,  talked  with  them  ;  asked  them  if 
they  could  not  help  him  over  the  river,  and  pre- 
tended he  wanted  to  come  to  them.  At  last,  being 
come  to  the  point  where,  as  I  said,  the  river  makes 


THE    THIRTY    YEARS'    WAR.  221 

a  short  turn,  he  stands  parleying  with  them  a 
great  while,  and  sometimes  pretending  to  wade 
over,  he  puts  his  long  pole  into  the  water;  then, 
finding  it  pretty  shallow,  he  pulls  off  his  hose  and 
goes  in,  still  thrusting  in  his  pole  before  him,  till, 
being  gotten  up  to  his  middle,  he  could  reach  be- 
yond him,  where  it  was  too  deep  ;  and  so,  shaking 
his  head,  comes  back  again.  The  soldiers  on  the 
other  side,  laughing  at  him,  asked  him  if  he  could 
swim.  He  said  no.  ' Why,  you  fool,  you,'  says 
one  of  the  sentinels,  '  the  channel  of  the  river  is 
twenty  feet  deep.'  «  How  do  you  know  that?  '  says 
the  dragoon.  '  Why,  our  engineer,'  says  he,  *  meas- 
ured it  yesterday.'  This  was  what  he  wanted,  but, 
not  yet  fully  satisfied,  'Ay,  but,'  says  he,  'maybe 
it  may  not  be  very  broad,  and  if  one  of  you  would 
wade  in  to  meet  me  till  I  could  reach  you  with  my 
pole,  I'd  give  him  half  a  ducat  to  pull  me  over.' 
The  innocent  way  of  his  discourse  so  deluded  the 
soldiers  that  one  of  them  immediately  strips  and 
goes  in  up  to  the  shoulders,  and  our  dragoon  goes 
in  on  this  side  to  meet  him ;  but  the  stream  took 
the  other  soldier  away,  and  he,  being  a  good  swim- 
mer, came  swimming  over  to  this  side.  The  dra- 
goon was  then  in  a  great  deal  of  pain  for  fear  of 
being  discovered,  and  was  once  going  to  kill  the  fel- 
low and  make  off;  but  at  last,  resolved  to  carry  011 
the  humor,  and  having  entertained  the  fellow  with  a 
tale  of  a  tub,  about  the  Swedes  stealing  his  oats,  the 
fellow,  being  cold,  wanted  to  be  gone  ;  and  as  he  was 
willing  to  be  rid  of  him,  pretended  to  be  very  sorry 
he  could  not  get  over  the  river,  and  so  makes  off. 


222  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

"  By  this,  however,  he  learned  both  the  depth 
and  breadth  of  the  channel,  the  bottom  and  nature 
of  both  shores,  and  everything  the  king  wanted  to 
know.  We  could  see  him  from  the  hill  by  our 
glasses  very  plain,  and  could  see  the  soldier  naked 
with  him.  Says  the  king,  *  He  will  certainly  be  dis- 
covered and  knocked  on  the  head  from  the  other 
side ;  he  is  a  fool,'  says  the  king,  *  if  he  does  not 
kill  the  fellow  and  run  off;'  but  when  the  dragoon 
told  his  tale,  the  king  was  extremely  well  satisfied 
with  him,  gave  him  one  hundred  dollars,  and  made 
him  a  quartermaster  to  a  troop  of  cuirassiers." 

This  had  taken  place  in  April.  It  was  now  No- 
vember, and  the  army,  the  cool  quartermaster  no 
doubt,  with  his  troop  of  cuirassiers  —  unless  the 
poor  fellow  was  in  the  number  of  those  who  laid 
down  their  lives  at  Nuremberg  —  was  pressing  on 
to  meet  a  foe  that  had  long  eluded  them. 

By  nightfall  that  fifth  of  November  the  Swedes 
were  at  Liitzen ;  and  in  the  fields  just  beyond,  the 
"  rugged,  surly  fellows  "  of  the  host  of  Wallenstein 
lay  waiting,  the  skirmishers,  who  had  been  watch- 
ing the  Protestant  march,  retiring  upon  the  main 
body.  Gustavus  led  his  army  south  of  the  village 
in  a  circuit,  until  he  had  gained  its  eastern  end, 
drawing  it  up  at  last  in  two  lines  a  few  yards  south 
of  the  high-road.  In  the  centre  stood  the  foot, 
upon  which  perhaps  the  king  especially  relied ;  to 
the  left  were  the  Germans,  under  their  Duke  Bern- 
hard  ;  to  the  right  he  rode  himself,  at  the  head  of 
the  Swedish  horse.  In  the  rear  was  a  reserve,  com- 
manded by  a  Scotchman  ;  the  artillery  were  placed 


THE    THIRTY    YEARS'    WAR.  223 

along  the  whole  front.  On  the  side  of  the  imperial- 
ists, but  a  few  rods  removed  beyond  the  road,  in 
the  darkness,  there  was  sufficient  vigilance.  Wal- 
lenstein  had  made  the  ditches  broader  that  lined 
both  sides  of  the  road,  and  filled  them  with  skir- 
mishers. In  the  centre  of  his  line,  just  north  of 
the  high-road,  a  battery  of  large  guns  was  placed, 
the  infantry  close  behind  in  large  brigades.  Op- 
posite Duke  Bernhard,  near  a  windmill,  was  a  larger 
battery.  At  the  other  end  of  his  line  were  cavalry, 
and  a  quantity  of  servants  and  camp-followers, 
whom  Wallenstein  compelled  to  arm  and  stand  in 
the  lines,  that  the  Swedes  might  be  deceived  as  to 
his  strength.  As  Gustavus  had  Horn  and  Banier, 
so  Wallenstein  had  as  lieutenants,  Piccolomini  and 
Pappenheim  ;  though  the  latter  had  been  despatched 
with  a  portion  of  the  army  on  an  expedition.  Gus- 
tavus' army  numbered  twenty  thousand ;  that  of 
Wallenstein  was  at  first  less,  and  couriers  were  des- 
patched to  recall  Pappenheim,  riding  through  the 
night  as  if  for  life.  "  The  enemy  is  marching  hith- 
erward,"  wrote  Wallenstein.  "  Break  up  instantly 
with  every  man  and  gun,  so  as  to  arrive  here  early 
in  the  morning.  P.  S.  He  is  already  at  the  pass 
and  hollow  road."  One  may  still  see  this  note  in 
the  archives  at  Vienna,  stained  with  the  blood  of 
Pappenheim,  who  had  it  on  him  when  he  received 
his  mortal  wound.  The  poets  have  filled  the 
shadows  of  that  night  before  the  battle  with  ro- 
mance. The  silent  Wallenstein  had  consulted  the 
stars  before  deciding  to  engage,  and  been  assured 
by  his  astrologer  that  the  planets  threatened  de- 


224  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

struction  to  Gustavus  in  November.  As  lie  slept  on 
the  field,  in  the  midst  of  the  desultory  firing  of  the 
outposts,  he  was  visited  by  mysterious  dreams. 

When  the  late  dawn  came,  the  two  armies  lay  wet 
and  chilled,  shrouded  in  a  mist  that  was  loath  to 
rise ;  and  it  was  not  until  eleven  in  the  forenoon 
that  it  was  clear  enough  for  the  Swedes  to  see  the 
imperialist  position.  Then  at  length  the  king,  a 
head  taller  than  those  of  his  retinue,  mounted  his 
superb  white  charger,  a  creature  of  superior  size  and 
beauty,  —  said  to  have  been  thrown  in  his  way  by 
his  enemies,  that  he  might  become  a  more  con- 
spicuous mark,  —  and  rode  from  troop  to  troop,  clad 
simply  in  his  suit  of  buff  leather.  I  saw  at  Dresden 
the  armor  he  left  behind  at  Weissenfels,  and  which, 
had  he  worn  it,  might  have  saved  his  life.  Plates 
of  steel,  brown  in  hue,  the  head-piece  and  corselet 
made  to  fit  an  ample  brow  and  breast ;  but  these  the 
king,  too  intrepidly,  threw  aside.  He  aliglited, 
knelt  before  his  whole  army,  who  also  knelt,  and, 
with  uncovered  head,  prayed.1  Then,  accompanied 
stormily  by  the  drums  and  trumpets  of  all  the  regi- 
ments, the  thousands  sang  the  great  psalm  of 
Luther,  "  Ein'  feste  Burg  ist  unser  Gott,"  the 
powerful  tones  of  the  king  ringing  highest.  Was 
it  ever  more  memorably  sung?  Then  followed  a 
hymn  which  the  king  himself  had  written,  "Fear 
not,  little  flock."  Here  is  a  verse  of  it,  as  given 
by  Gfrorer : 


1  According  to  Laurent,  his  exclamation  on  landing  upon*  the 
shore  of  Germany  was,  "  La  prtere  aide  a  combattre ;  bien  prier,  c'est 
a  moitie"  vaincre." 


THE    THIRTY    YEARS'    WAR.  225 

Verzage  nicht,  du  Hauflein  klein! 
Obschon  die  Feinde  Willens  sein 

Dich  ganzlich  zu  zerspalten; 
Gott  wird  durch  einen  Gideon 
Den  er  wohl  weiss,  dir  helfen  schon, 

Dich  und  sein  Wort  erhalten.1 

Most  simple  and  manly  it  was  in  its  piety.  The 
south  wind  then  blowing  carried  the  thunder  of 
the  soldiers'  voices  to  the  hostile  lines.  The  hymn 
died  away ;  the  voices  of  the  priests  too,  who  had 
been  celebrating  mass  in  the  other  host,  became 
silent.  Then  came  the  shouts  of  the  Swedish  cap- 
tains commanding  the  assault.  The  cannon  on  both 
sides  opened  with  fury,  and  over  the  stubble  of  the 
bare  field,  with  pike  and  musket,  the  foot  sprang 
forward.  To  the  ditch  it  was  only  a  few  steps,  and 
there  the  enemy  met  them  with  obstinacy.  The 
king  sprang  from  his  horse,  —  when  the  vigor  of  the 
attack  appeared  for  a  moment  to  slacken,  —  caught 
a  partisan  from  the  hand  of  a  soldier,  and  went 
himself  to  the  front,  chiding  them  as  he  hurried 
through  their  ranks,  and  bidding  them  "  stand  firm 
at  least  some  minutes  longer,  and  have  the  curiosity 
to  see  your  master  die  in  the  manner  he  ought,  and 
the  manner  he  chooses."2  At  length  the  enemy 
were  dislodged  ;  the  host  of  men,  pursuers  and  pur- 


1  Fear  not,  O  little  flock !  although 
Against  thee  burst  the  furious  foe, 

Thee  quite  to  sunder  aiming; 
For  God  shall,  through  some  Gideon 
Whom  He  well  knows,  with  succor  run, 

Thee  and  His  word  maintaining. 
*  Harte :  Life  of  Gustavus. 

15 


226  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

sued,  streamed  across  the  high-road  into  the  farther 
field.  The  dark  host  of  Piccolomini's  cuirassiers 
charged  toward  them.  "  Grapple  with  these  black 
fellows  !  "  cried  the  king  to  the  colonel  of  the  Fin- 
land horse.  There  was  clash  and  tumult ;  in  an- 
other moment  the  smoking  battery  at  Wallensteiu's 
centre  was  in  Swedish  hands,  and  presently  three 
of  the  brigades  of  infantry  were  in  confusion. 
Wallenstein  himself  here  came  riding  forward,  on 
the  red  steed  which  he  mounted  as  the  fight  became 
hot.  His  usual  dress  in  the  field — which  he  prob- 
ably wore  on  this  day — was  a  coat  of  elk-skin,  a  red 
scarf,  a  richly-embroidered  cloak  of  scarlet,  a  gray 
hat  with  red  feathers,  and  about  his  neck  the  order 
of  the  Golden  Fleece.  Behind  him  galloped  a  body 
of  chosen  horse,  who  obeyed  him  as  if  he  had 
been  a  demi-god. 

Wallenstein '&  dress  was  again  and  again  shot 
through.  Step  by  step  the  Swedes  were  forced 
backward,  the  cannon  recaptured.  The  battle  be- 
came a  wild  melee,  where  the  intermingled  combat- 
ants fought,  for  the  most  part,  with  pike  and 
musket-butt,  until  at  length  the  assailants  were 
driven  beyond  the  road  once  more,  and  stood  at 
last  a  broken  company,  on  the  ground  from  which 
they  had  advanced.  Liitzen,  close  by,  was  now 
in  flames,  and  Bernhard's  Germans  were  sorely  har- 
assed by  the  fire  of  the  guns  from  the  windmill. 
The  king,  however,  charging  at  the  head  of  the 
Swedish  horse,  threw  into  confusion  the  imperialist 
left;  then,  hearing  of  Bernhard's  danger  and  the 
repulse  of  the  centre,  he  set  out  on  the  gallop  to 


THE    THIRTY    YEARS'    WAR.  227 

stay  the  reverse.  His  horse  was  powerful.  He 
leaped  the  ditches  at  the  roadside,  the  regiment  of 
Smalanders  galloping  after  him.  His  pace,  how- 
ever, was  so  rapid  that  he  left  them  behind,  and 
only  one  or  two  of  his  retinue  could  keep  up  with 
him.  He  was  near-sighted,  and  in  his  ardor  went 
too  near  the  enemy's  line.  "  That  must  be  one  of 
their  leaders,"  said  an  imperialist  corporal;  "fire 
upon  him."  There  was  shooting  at  close  quarters, 
and  a  ball  pierced  the  king's  arm.  Faint  with  pain, 
he  reeled  a  little  in  the  saddle.  "  The  king  is 
bleeding !  the  king  is  bleeding ! ' '  cried  the  ap- 
proaching dragoons.  Leaning  upon  the  duke  of 
Saxe-Lauenburg,  Gustavus  besought  him  to  get 
him  to  one  side.  They  avoided  the  press  by  a  little 
detour,  which,  however,  carried  them  again  too  near 
the  enemy.  There  was  further  firing  ;  the  pallid  and 
tottering  king  gasped  out,  "  My  God  !  my  God  !  " 
and  fell  from  his  horse,  pierced  through  and  through. 
His  foot  hung  in  the  stirrup,  and  his  horse,  like- 
wise wounded,  dragged  him  farther  among  the 
enemy,  where  he  was  again  shot,  exclaiming,  as  he 
gave  up  the  ghost,  "My  God!  my  God!  Alas, 
my  poor  queen!"  A  murderous  fight  took  place 
over  his  body  as  he  lay.  Now  the  Croats  were 
in  possession,  —  swarthy  ruffians,  such  as  one  sees 
still  in  Austrian  uniforms  in  the  towns  along  the 
Danube,  as  he  goes  toward  Vienna.  Now  the 
Swedes  had  the  advantage,  only  to  be  driven  off 
again,  until  the  heap  of  bodies  grew  high  above 
the  king,  and  neither  friend  nor  foe  knew  longer 
where  he  lay.  The  body  had  been  stripped,  how- 


228  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

ever,  and  the  doublet,  pierced  with  bullet-holes  and 
stained  with  blood,  is  still  shown  at  Vienna.  A 
turquoise  of  extraordinary  size,  which  he  wore 
attached  to  a  chain,  —  perhaps  as  a  talisman,  —  one 
of  the  crown  jewels  of  Sweden,  has  never  been  re- 
covered. The  white  steed,  covered  with  blood,  and 
mad  with  his  wounds,  galloping  along  the  line,  gave 
the  army  the  first  intimation  that  misfortune  had 
befallen  the  king.  There  was  some  talk  of  retreat, 
but  Duke  Bernhard,  himself  wounded  in  the  arm, 
rode  to  the  front.  In  the  presence  of  the  army — 
for  the  moment  appalled  —  he  ran  through  and 
through  with  his  sword  the  commander  of  the 
Smalanders,  who  had  guarded  the  king  too  neg- 
ligently. The  Swedes,  recovering  heart  in  a 
moment,  before  the  decision  of  the  new  leader, 
stormed  madly  forward ;  the  voice  of  the  king's 
blood  seemed  to  cry  to  them  from  the  ground ;  and 
German  and  Scot,  Hollander  and  Englishman,  were 
not  far  behind.  Over  the  road  again  they  poured 
in  a  torrent ;  the  battery,  already  taken  and  re- 
taken, smutched  and  heated  with  incessant  dis- 
charge, was  again  in  their  hands.  The  guns  at  the 
windwill  were  captured ;  troop  after  troop,  put 
utterly  to  rout,  fled  toward  Leipsig.  In  vain  Pic- 
colomini  exposed  himself,  until  seven  horses  were 
killed  under  him,  and  he  was  wet  with  his  own 
blood.  The  spell  of  Wallenstein  himself  seemed 
broken.  Wierd  as  a  demon,  he  moved  in  the 
tumult,  invulnerable  to  bullet  and  pike-thrust,  as 
if  he  really  were  a  shade,  or  smeared  with  the  oint- 
ment of  hell,  which  many  believed  he  had  at  com- 


THE    THIRTY    YEARS'    WAR.  229 

mand.  The  powder- wagons  in  the  rear  roared  into 
the  air  in  a  sudden  explosion,  raining  balls  and 
bursting  bombs  in  every  direction.  All  was  on  the 
brink  of  utter  rout,  when,  with  galloping  hoofs  and 
corselets  reflecting  the  late  afternoon  light,  the 
horse  of  Pappenheim  —  six  fierce,  fresh  regiments  — 
rushed  upon  the  field ;  their  leader  rode  ahead, 
a  most  impetuous  chieftain,  whose  brow  it  was 
said,  when  he  was  on  fire  with  battle,  bore  in  deep 
crimson  the  mark  of  two  sabres  crossed.  You 
may  see  at  Dresden  the  baton  which  he  carried 
as  field-marshal ;  and  now,  no  doubt,  while  the 
fighting  sabres  were  flaming  on  his  forehead,  pointed 
forward  to  mark  the  path  for  his  troopers.  The 
Swedes  were  outnumbered  and  exhausted  by  their 
successes,  but  a. fight  of  utter  recklessness  went  for- 
ward. The  ghost  of  the  dead  king  seemed  to  hover 
in  the  battle-smoke.  With  a  sort  of  demon  gran- 
deur, Wallenstein,  in  his  red  attire,  towered  in  the 
tumult,  with  an  eye  that  burned  upon  the  fray  with  — 
as  his  host  had  some  reason  to  think — a  supernatural 
flame.  His  retinue  were  all  shot  down  ;  a  cannon- 
ball  tore  the  spur  from  his  heel ;  several  musket- 
balls  were  found  to  have  lodged  in  the  folds  of  his 
dress.  It  was  a  confusion  of  blood,  shrieks,  prayers, 
curses.  "  It  was  wonderful  to  see  how  (among  the 
Swedes)  the  whole  yellow  regiment,  after  half  an 
hour,  in  the  same  beautiful  order  in  which  it  had 
stood  living,  lay  dead  by  its  arms,"  1  and  the  Goth- 
land and  Smaland  blues  had  fought  also  to  an  exter- 


Khevenhuller. 


230  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

mination  as  utter.  The  Swedes  were  driven  back  to 
their  position  of  the  morning.  As  the  twilight, 
however,  was  giving  way  to  darkness,  they  advanced 
again,  and  fought  until  —  in  the  November  black- 
ness—  friend  could  no  longer  be  told  from  foe. 
Wallenstein,  like  a  baffled  goblin,  withdrew  silently 
in  the  gloom,  without  standards,  without  artillery, 
the  soldiers  almost  without  arms,  bearing  with  him 
Pappenheim,  who  had  saved  him,  at  the  last  gasp, 
from  a  mortal  wound.  In  the  darkness  the  Swed- 
ish Colonel  Oehm  heard  a  voice  commanding  him 
to  "  follow  to  Leipsig."  It  Avas  a  messenger  from 
Wallenstein,  who  mistook  his  regiment  for  Hoff- 
kirk's  imperialists  ;  and  then  first  the  Swedes  knew 
that  the  foe  had  yielded.1  One-fourth  of  all  en- 
gaged had  been  slain  outright ;  and  as  to  wounded, 
in  the  host  of  Wallenstein  scarcely  a  man  was  un- 
hurt. The  Swedes  encamped  close  upon  the  field. 
They  hunted  with  lanterns  among  the  corpses,  in  the 
low-hanging  gloom,  until  at  length  they  found  the 
king,  face  downward,  close  by  a  great  stone,  naked, 
gashed,  trampled.  The  great  stone  on  the  plain  of 
Liitzen,  long  before  the  time  of  the  battle,  had  had  a 
notoriety,  perhaps  been  an  object  of  some  rever- 
ence. It  is  a  solitary  bowlder,  brought  hither  by 
natural  forces,  or  perhaps  by  human  hands,  to  lie 
here  alone,  —  whence  and  for  what,  no  man  can  say. 
But  since  that  day,  mention  of  the  * '  Schwedenstein ' ' 
comes  in  again  and  again  in  history  and  poetry, 
coupled  with  solemn  lamenting,  until,  through  asso- 

1  Harte. 


THE    THIRTY    YEARS'    WAR.  231 

ciation,  the  words,  to  a  German  ear,  have  come  to 
have  almost  the  sound  of  moaning.  The  king's 
corpse  was  carried,  by  torch-light,  accompanied  by  a 
little  retinue  of  troopers,  in  an  ammunition-wagon, 
to  a  village  in  the  rear  of  the  Swedish  line,  where  it 
was  laid  before  the  altar  of  the  little  church.  The 
village  school-master  tells  the  story  ;  how  a  simple 
service  took  place,  conducted  by  himself  and  a 
trooper  yet  covered  with  the  dust  and  sweat  of  bat- 
tle ;  then  how,  while  the  body  lay  at  length  on  a 
table  in  a  peasant's  house,  he  made  a  plain  coffin,  in 
which  the  hero  was  borne  to  his  weeping  queen  at 
Weissenfels.1 

I  went  alone  over  the  plain  of  Liitzen,  the  twi- 
light deepening  at  every  step,  bearing  in  my  mind 
the  story  I  have  told.  The  rattle  of  the  wheels 
from  the  receding  Eilwagen  had  long  been  hushed  ; 
there  was  no  footfall  on  the  highway  but  my  own. 
Between  the  rows'of  trees  at  length  I  saw  dimly  the 
buildings  of  Ltltzen,  and  knew  I  had  reached  the 
spot.  I  waited  in  the  road  until  the  night  had 
wholly  set  in.  The  moon,  behind  a  thin  cloud,  gave 
a  ghostly  light ;  there  was  now  and  then  a  light- 
ning flash  in  the  horizon,  and  a  sullen  roll  of  thun- 
der, like  the  sound  of  distant  cannon.  I  looked  out 
upon  the  fields  to  the  north,  showing  faint  and  mys- 
terious,—  those  in  which  Wallenstein  had  lain  when 
in  the  black  darkness  he  dreamed,  or  awoke  to  deal 
with  charms  and  incantations  ;  whence  on  the  mor- 
row, as  the  mist  cleared,  he  looked  across  and  be- 


Gfrorer. 


232  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

held  the  bareheaded  Swedes  upon  their  knees. 
There  it  was  that  he  rode,  stern  and  calm,  with  his 
invulnerable  breast.  I  was  now  on  the  spot  where 
the  fight  had  been  fiercest,  on  the  broad  level  of  the 
high-road,  alone  where  those  thousands  had  strug- 
gled. I  tried  to  call  up  a  vision  of  the  swarming 
Norsemen,  yellow-haired  and  vigorous,  with  frames 
and  courage  exercised  in  the  woods  and  fiords  that 
had  nursed  the  sea-kings  before  them.  It  must 
have  been  just  here  that  the  yellow  regiment  lay 
dead,  all  ranked  as  they  stood ;  and  just  here  the 
blues.  It  was  here  that  the  cannon-wheels  fur- 
rowed the  sod  ;  and  it  was  yonder  that  Pappen- 
heim  burst  in  with  his  sweating  horses  and  remorse- 
less sabres. 

I  left  the  road  and  went  down  into  the  field  to  the 
south,  in  a  spot  where  the  grain  had  been  reaped, 
and  stood  where  the  Protestant  line  stood  when 
their  hearts  heaved  as  they  prayed  with  the  king, 
and  shook  the  air  with  their  manly  chanting.  Here 
it  must  have  been  that  he  flung  himself  from  his 
horse,  and  went  forward,  pike  in  hand,  when  the 
foot  hesitated ;  and  now  at  length  I  came  to  the 
great  stone  at  the  foot  of  which  they  found  the 
king's  body.  It  rose  in  the  plain,  two  feet  or  so 
above  the  soil,  gray,  indistinct  under  the  moon, 
dumb,  but  eloquent.  I  thought  of  the  stain  that 
had  lain  among  the  lichens  there  ;  the  cold  mist 
charged  heavily  with  the  sulphurous  reek  of  the 
combat ;  the  Swedes,  weeping  and  wounded,  search- 
ing wearily  among  the  corpses  with  their  lanterns  ; 
then,  at  last,  throwing  their  arms,  stiff  with  smiting, 


THE    THIRTY    YEARS'    WAR.  233 

about  their  golden  hero,1  stretched,  tall  and  noble, 
just  in  front. 

It  was  all  wild  and  solemn  as  a  scene  in  Ossian,  — 
the  solitude,  the  low  thunder,  the  dimness  of  the 
night,  the  sad  moan  of  the  wind,  the  lightning  like 
the  red  blade  of  a  war-god  suddenly  brandished. 
The  moon,  cold  and  pale,  sinking  toward  the  west, 
fell  back  in  a  faint,  blue  reflection  from  a  little  pool 
among  the  furrows,  as  if  the  great  turquoise  lay  there 
that  is  said  to  have  vanished  from  the  earth  with  the 
king's  life.  It  was  a  night  for  the  phantoms  to  ap- 
pear and  fight  the  battle  over  again.  It  was  late 
when  I  went  on,  at  last,  into  the  deserted  street  of 
the  little  village.  At  the  inn  my  mind  was  too  full 
for  quiet  sleep  ;  if  my  eyes  closed,  'twas  to  dream 
of  smoking  torches,  in  the  hands  of  men  covered 
with  dust  and  blood,  and  shining  on  the  king's 
body  ;  of  the  clatter  of  hammers  driving  coffin-nails  ; 
and  of  Wallenstein,  red  and  spectral,  like  the  wild 
huntsman,  swallowed  up  in  the  gloom  and  storm  of 
the  dismal  night. 

If  the  ghosts  of  great  men  revisit  the  spots  mem- 
orable to  them  during  their  earthly  strivings,  tower- 
ing shades  they  are  that  encounter  one  another  on 
that  Liitzen  high-road.  Just  here  it  was  that  Charles 
XII.,  that  iron-sided  Swede,  pitched  his  camp  when 
Northern  Europe  was  his  foot-ball.  Here  again,  in 
1757,  marched  an  army  in  cocked  hats,  high  black 
gaiters  coming  to  the  knees,  and  hair  gathered  in 
queues.  With  the  vanguard  rode  a  man  straight 


The  Italians  called  him  "Re  6?Oro,"  from  the  color  of  his  hair. 


234  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

and  stiff,  with  a  steely  eye,  in  which  the  light  glit- 
tered cold  and  blue  as  on  a  bayonet.  Nothing 
marked  him  as  a  leader  but  the  star  on  his  breast. 
It  was  Frederick  the  Great,  about  to  deploy  upon  the 
field  of  Rossbach.  Still  again,  in  May,  1813,  here 
was  marching  a  column  of  Frenchmen,  —  a  slender 
line,  stretching  several  leagues.  It  was  struck  sud- 
denly on  the  flank  by  the  Russians  and  Prussians, 
and  nearly  cut  in  two.  Thirteen  thousand  French 
died  to  prevent  it ;  for  the  long  column,  leaving  the 
high-road,  swept  down  into  the  fields  toward  the 
danger,  and  grappled  with  it  long  and  doubtfully. 
The  Imperial  Guard  had  bivouacked  at  the  great 
stone  of  Liitzen ;  and  it  was  precisely  there  that 
Napoleon,  flat  on  his  belly,  studying  a  map,  rose  to 
listen  to  the  sudden  cannonade  to  the  right ;  then, 
presently  after,  his  genius  working  at  its  brightest, 
galloped  off  into  the  fire.  If  such  shades  ever  walk, 
they  may  well  walk  there.  If  precedence  is  given 
to  him  that  was  noblest,  they  will  all  yield  to  the 
lofty  Swede  who  prayed  as  he  fought.  Close  by 
the  earth-shaking  Corsican  will  move  the  wizard 
Bohemian,  whose  sworti  was  wielded  as  well,  cut  as 
keenly,  swept  as  far,  and  might  have  completed  the 
parallel  by  becoming  also  an  imperial  sceptre,  but 
for  the  intervention  of  the  assassin. 

In  the  careers  of  both  Gustavus  and  Wallenstein, 
the  battle  of  Liitzen  is  the  crisis.  To  one  it  brought 
death ;  to  the  other  the  fulness  of  fame  and  power. 
Moreover,  in  the  battle  of  Liitzen  we  may  see  the 
whole  of  the  Thirty  Years'  War.  In  Gothe's  theory 
of  the  metamorphosis  of  plants,  we  are  taught  that 


THE    THIRTY"    YEARS'    WAR.  235 

every  part  of  the  plant  is  a  repetition  of  one  type, 
and  that  is  the  leaf.  Bark  and  bough,  stamen,  pis- 
til, petal,  are  but  modified  leaves,  the  plant  through- 
out and  during  its  whole  existence  being  made  up 
of  nothing  else.  By  a  very  dismal  morphology, 
such  a  leaf  is  Lutzen ;  modify  it  and  repeat  it  over 
and  over  again,  and  you  have  the  Thirty  Years' 
War.  Now  it  was  the  horrible  sack  of  a  city,  now 
the  hurling  from  windows  of  obnoxious  members  in 
a  parliamentary  assembly,  now  some  outburst  of 
gloomiest  fanaticism,  anon  an  exhibition  of  noble 
piety  and  sacrifice.  But  Lutzen  is  the  type  of  it  all. 
The  same  persistence,  the  same  awful  hatred,  the 
waste,  the  bloodshed,  the  hymns,  the  prayers,  the 
blasphemies,  raging  forward  from  first  to  last  during 
those  terrible  years,  until  the  land  was  well-nigh 
consumed.  It  is  worth  while,  then,  to  consider  the 
event,  as  has  been  done,  quite  narrowly.  Lutzen 
was  scarcely  more  than  a  drawn  battle  ;  the  general- 
ship of  Wallenstein  was  perhaps  fully  equal  to  that 
of  Gustavus.  Throughout  the  first  part  of  the  ac- 
tion the  duke  held  the  king  in  check  with  perhaps 
scarcely  more  than  half  his  number.  When  dark- 
ness came,  it  can  hardly  be  said  that  the  advan- 
tage was  with  the  Protestants.  Wallenstein  indeed 
withdrew  without  artillery  and  standards,  but  the 
Swedes  were  too  crippled  to  stir  in  pursuit,  and 
the  loss  of  the  king  was  greater  than  that  of  a 
dozen  armies.  Oxenstiern,  however,  the  great  chan- 
cellor of  Sweden,  remained  for  the  cabinet ;  Bern- 
hard,  Horn,  Banier,  and  Torstenson  for  the  field, — 
pupils  of  the  king,  who  did  honor  to  their  master. 
The  end  was  not  yet. 


236  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

Wallenstein  withdrew  from  Leipsig,  making 
princely  gifts  to  the  captains  and  corps  who  had 
done  well  in  the  battle,  and  sternly  punishing  such  as 
had  been  dilatory.  During  the  winter  he  recruited 
and  reformed  his  army,  and  in  the  spring,  when  he 
opened  his  last  campaign,  this  was  his  pomp,  as  de- 
scribed by  an  eye-witness  :  *  *  The  train  announced 
the  man  who,  in  power  and  splendor,  vied  even  with 
the  emperor  himself.  The  procession  consisted  of 
fourteen  carriages,  each  drawn  by  six  horses  ;  twenty 
cavaliers  of  rank  attended  on  Wallenstein' s  own 
person,  and  a  hundred  and  twenty  liveried  servants 
followed  in  the  suite.  All  the  court  attendants  were 
dressed  in  new  scarlet  and  blue  uniforms  ;  and  ten 
trumpeters,  sounding  their  silver-gilt  trumpets, 
opened  the  way.  All  the  baggage-wagons  were  cov- 
ered with  gilt  leather  ;  the  greatest  order  prevailed 
in  the  establishment,  and  every  person  knew  exactly 
what  was  his  place  and  what  were  his  duties.  The 
duke  himself  was  dressed  in  a  horseman's  buff  coat ; 
and  the  entire  scene  resembled  more  a  victor's  tri- 
umph than  the  march  of  a  lately  baffled  com- 
mander." 

A  mystery  hangs  over  the  short  remnant  of  Wal- 
lenstein's  life  which  has  never  been  penetrated.  He 
was  omnipotent  in  his  army,  trusted  to  the  full  by 
the  emperor  ;  now  that  Gustavus  was  gone,  opposed 
by  no  leader  who  could  match  him.  Henceforth, 
however,  his  career  has  no  glory ;  his  force  gives 
way  to  supineness  and  vacillation.  It  was  not  decay 
of  power;  what  was  it?  He  was  a  puzzle  even  to 
the  ablest  and  best-informed  of  his  contemporaries. 
Oxenstiern  declared  that  the  motives  of  Wallenstein 


THE    THIRTY    FEARS'    WAR.  237 

were  too  mysterious  for  him  to  penetrate.  He 
spared  the  Protestant  Saxons  ;  played  fast  and  loose 
in  negotiations  with  the  Swedes ;  bore  himself 
haughtily  toward  the  imperial  court,  until  the  latter 
resolved  upon  his  downfall.  By  secret  machinations 
his  host  was  taken  from  him  ;  and  at  length,  while 
at  Eger,  a  fortress  on  the  frontier  between  Bavaria 
and  Bohemia,  in  February,  1634,  the  end  came. 
Through  the  agency  of  Colonel  Buttler,  an  Irish 
mercenary,  his  confidants,  Illo  and  Terzky,  were 
slain  at  a  banquet.  A  few  moments  later  the  ruf- 
fians burst  into  the  solitary  room  where  Wallenstein 
brooded,  as  usual,  by  himself,  over  his  purposes. 
He  deigned  to  utter  no  word  of  expostulation  ;  stand- 
ing in  cold  dignity,  with  arms  extended,  he  received 
the  halberd-thrust.  He  passed  away,  his  life  all  un- 
explained, a*s  incomprehensible  as  the  sphinx. 

Wallenstein  was  dead.  To  excuse  the  deed,  the 
imperial  court  declared  that  he  had  meditated  trea- 
son ;  that  his  purpose  had  been  to  lead  his  army 
over  to  the  enemy,  and,  at  the  head  of  both,  seize 
upon  the  sovereignty.  This  view  is  the  one  which 
has  been  generally  entertained,  many  Protestant 
authorities  believing  that,  in  the  reconstituted  em- 
pire, he  meant  to  exercise  a  tolerant  rule,  giving  to 
all  the  blessings  of  peace.  Fb'rster,  a  writer  of  our 
own  century,  who  had  access  to  documents  hereto- 
fore kept  secret  at  Vienna,  declared  that  he  medi- 
tated no  treason,  but  was  sacrificed  by  the  court 
simply  because  he  had  sickened  of  war,  and  baffled 
the  ruthless  policy  which  the  court  prescribed. 
Hurter,  on  the  other  hand,  who  writes  in  the  in- 


238  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

terest  of  the  Catholics  and  the  court  of  Austria,  has 
drawn  his  character  in  the  darkest  colors,  represent- 
ing him  as  the  evil  demon  of  Germany.1  The  first 
modern  authority  in  historical  investigation,  Von 
Ranke,  who  has  lately  treated  the  subject,  cannot 
be  definite,  and  is  forced  to  leave  many  important 
points  undecided.  "If  one,"  he  declares,  "reads 
Forster  and  Hurter,  he  sees  that  we  stand  to-day, 
although  somewhat  better  instructed,  just  as  at  first. 
What  one  maintains,  the  other  denies." 

One  is  glad  to  think  there  is  reason  for  consider- 
ing FriedLind,  at  the  last,  at  any  rate  in  some  ways 
noble  as  well  as  able.  He  was  nursed  in  the  warfare 
of  his  time,  the  instrument  of  cruelties  which  we 
can  hardly  endure  to  hear  of.  Perhaps  he  tried  to 
mitigate  the  horrors  of  the  warfare,  dying  at  length 
in  an  effort  to  establish  peace  and  a  tolerance  that 
was  far  before  his  time.  I  find  him  called  the  great- 
est figure  of  his  time,  and  so  set  above  Gustavus. 
It  was  indeed  the  case' that  the  king  was  born  abso- 
lute monarch  of  a  race  of  brave  men ;  Wallenstein 
began  in  the  ranks,  or  scarcely  above,  —  the  son  of 
a  man  poor  and  obscure.  Weighted  though  he  was, 
he  confronted  the  king,  at  the  height  of  his  fame,  as 
powerful  as  he.  Such  was  his  might  that  men  said 
he  had  bought  it  of  the  devil,  and  paid  for  it  with 
his  own  soul.  It  is  not  strange  that  romantic  nat- 
ures have  become  absorbed  in  him,  and  that  painters 
and  poets  have  considered  him  an  attractive  sub- 
ject. Schiller  has  founded  upon  his  story  a  tragedy 


Die  Geschichte  Wallensteins. 


THE    THIRTY    YEARS'    WAR.  239 

which  has  been  declared  the  greatest  drama  since 
the  time  of  Shakespeare.1  In  a  future 'chapter  the 
trilogy  of  < '  Wallenstein ' '  will  be  considered  with 
some  care.  :  /;'  J: 

In  the  "  Neue  Pinacothek,"  at  Munich,  a  picture 
that  attracts  the  attention  of  all  is  the  "  Death  of 
Wallenstein."  With  outstretched  arms,  as  he  fell, 
lies  the  murdered  leader,  while  over  him  stands  his 
astrologer  and  bosom  companion,  Seni,  whose  pas- 
sionless face  seems  to  say  that  it  was  fixed  by  fate, 
and  that  he  has  read  it  all  beforehand  in  the  courses 
of  the  stars.  Still  more  powerful  is  another  picture, 
to  be  seen  elsewhere,  in  which  Friedland  is  repre- 
sented as  just  entering  the  fortress  of  Eger  on  the 
eve  of  his  assassination.  It  is  by  the  artist  Piloty, 
who  has  embodied  in  a  wonderful  manner  in  his 
work  the  tragical  gloom  of  his  hero's  character  and 
career.  The  circumstances  are  those  of  a  magnifi- 
cent military  cavalcade,  and  yet  in  some  indescrib- 
able way  they  suggest  the  terrible.  In  the  fore- 
ground is  a  church-yard,  past  which  the  procession 
is  moving.  From  a  yawning,  half-finished  grave  the 
grave-digger  seems  to  beckon  to  Wallenstein,  sitting 
in  his  litter,  with  anxious  face  resting  upon  his  hand. 
Through  the  sky,  darkened  by  clouds,  the  ravens 
swoop,  filling  the  air,  as  it  were,  with  gloomy  boding. 
The  troopers  who  precede  the  litter  in  which  the 
duke  is  borne,  their  backs  only  seen,  seem  indescrib- 
ably to  betoken  the  averted  favor  of  the  world; 
while  the  figure  of  Buttler,  riding  behind,  though, 


De  Quincey. 


240  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

if  looked  at,  only  that  of  a  stern  soldier  of  the  pe- 
riod, is  yet  so  rigid,  so  ominously  dark  in  its  fea- 
tures, that  it  irresistibly  suggests  an  avenging  fate. 
The  leaders  were  gone,  but  the  war  raged  for- 
ward. What  became  of  the  magnificent  Germany 
of  the  old  time,  which  Karl  the  Great  had  founded, 
which  the  Hohenstauffen  had  loved  and  ruled,  and 
which  had  waxed  gloriously  forward  until  it  was 
everywhere  dotted  with  free  cities  among  the  well- 
tilled  leagues  ?  From  the  rich  river  valleys  up  into 
the  hills  had  swept  the  vineyards  and  corn-fields, 
and  past  them  poured  the  great  convoys  of  the  mer- 
chants from  foreign  lands  ;  in  the  many-hued  society 
had  stood  in  full  ranks  the  nobles,  the  sturdy 
burghers,  the  millions  of  the  peasantry.  Thirty 
years  of  devastation  and  the  black  forests  were 
growing  over  it  once  more,  from  which  a  thousand 
years  before  it  had  been  redeemed ;  no  longer  the 
song  of  the  laborers,  but  the  bark  of  the  wolves 
which  had  come  back  to  tenant  the  new-made  desert ; 
in  place  of  towers  and  homes,  ash-heaps  that  were 
full  of  skeletons  !  That  suit  of  armor  at  Dresden, 
left  behind  in  Weissenfels,  ten  miles  from  Liitzen, 
because  the  pressure  of  the  cuirass  was  somewhat 
heavy  on  an  old  wound  !  Had  Gustavus  worn  it,  in- 
stead of  the  doublet  of  buff  leather,  who  knows 
what  agony  might  have  been  saved  the  world  ?  So 
too,  but  for  the  pike-thrust  of  Buttler's  ruifians, 
might  Wallenstein  have  blocked  the  path  of  the 
heavy-footed  horror. 

The  literature  of  the  period   whose   history  we 


THE    THIRTY    YEARS'    WAR,       .  241 

have  reviewed,  from  the  death  of  Luther  to  the 
middle  of  the  eighteenth  century,  requires  only  brief 
consideration.  At  the  death  of  the  great  reformer, 
there  were  not  wanting  in  Germany  writers  of  abil- 
ity. Ingenious  minds  at  this  period  still  threshed 
the  straw  of  the  scholastic  philosophy  ;  but  there 
were  gifted  men,  in  their  lifetime  persecuted  as  nec- 
romancers, who  were  beginning  to  break  a  path  for 
modern  physical  science,  —  the  most  famous  repre- 
sentative of  whom  was  Paracelsus.  There  were  no 
poets  better  than  certain  honest  but  dreary  Master- 
singers,  excepting  that  now  and  then,  from  some 
earnest  Protestant  pastor,  came  a  devout  hymn.  A 
historian  sometimes  appears  a  little  better  than  a 
bare  annalist.  Above  all,  the  minds  of  men  were 
agitated  upon  questions  of  theology,  and  vast  li- 
braries were  written  for  and  against  dogmas  for 
which  the  world  has  ceased  to  care. 

The  dreamer  Bohme  must  be  mentioned,  —  like 
the  Nuremberg  Mastersinger,  a  cobbler, — whose 
name  has  come  to  be  reverenced  by  all  mystical  think- 
ers. Little  of  the  literary  work  of  this  time  was  done 
in  German.  The  centres  of  culture  —  at  first  the 
monasteries,  then  the  courts  of  princes,  then  the 
cities — were  now  the  universities,  which,  with  the 
revival  of  learning,  had  been  founded  in  many  parts 
of  the  land.  To  a  large  extent  we  must  ascribe  it  to 
pedantry  —  that  poor  vanity  of  scholars  which  leads 
to  a  display  of  attainments — that  the  learned  men 
turn  their  backs  upon  their  wholesome,  honest 
mother-tongue.  To  be  sure,  a  certain  convenience 
came  from  the  circumstance  that  since  Latin  was 

16 


242  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

recognized  as  the  only  language  fit  for  scholars,  the 
refined  men  of  different  lands  could,  through  this, 
make  themselves  intelligible  to  each  other.  But  it 
is  very  plain  that  those  who  should  have  been  guides 
and  teachers  seemed  to  take  an  unworthy  pleasure 
in  separating  themselves  from  the  world  of  plain 
men  and  women,  by  writing  and  talking  in  a  lan- 
guage unintelligible  to  them,  —  showing  a  spirit,  in 
this  respect,  as  far  as  possible  from  that  of  Luther, 
whom  they  in  most  things  professed  to  reverence. 
The  affectation  went  so  far  that  it  was  the  fashion 
to  be  ashamed  even  of  their  plain  German  names, 
which  must  be  exchanged  for,  or  modified  into,  Greek 
or  Latin  designations.  Hondt,  Turmair,  Von  Ho- 
henheim,  Schwarzerd,  became  Canisius,  Aventinus, 
Paracelsus,  Melanchthon.  They  were  sometimes 
men  of  power,  and  worked  with  industry,  but  their 
accomplishment  was  stored  up  in  the  dead  tongue. 
For  a  judgment  upon  them,  oblivion  has  buried 
most  of  them,  while  the  poetic  shoemakers  and 
vagabond  lampooners,  whom  they  utterly  despised, 
are  remembered,  and  sometimes  held  in  honor. 

At  the  end  of  the  century  appears  a  man  who 
must  be  mentioned  more  at  length.  To  Johann 
Fischart  the  high  praise  is  accorded  of  mirroring  in 
himself  the  intellectual  life  of  the  last  half  of  the 
sixteenth  century,  —  as  Luther  the  first.1  He  pos- 
sessed extraordinary  power,  various  and  thorough 
knowledge,  and  an  excellent  purpose.  Whether  he 
was  born  in  Mainz  or  Strassburg  is  a  matter  of  un- 

i  Kurz. 


THE    THIRTY    YEARS'    WAR.  243 

certainty.  He  travelled  widely,  and  toward  the  end 
of  his  life  lived  in  Speyer,  as  an  advocate  of  the  im- 
perial court.  Soon  after  his  death  he  was  almost 
forgotten,  although  during  his  lifetime  he  had  at- 
tained a  high  celebrity.  His  great  significance  has 
found  recognition  only  in  our  own  day.  He  was  not 
only  a  well-read  man,  like  Hans  Sachs,  but  a  great 
scholar  ;  his  nature  was  thoroughly  noble,  freedom 
being  the  watchword  of  his  life.  He  showed  great 
ability  in  satire.  It  is  plain  that  he  loves  his  race, 
though  he  uncovers  unsparingly  human  weaknesses 
and  defects.  His  greatness  and  many-sidedness  are 
most  apparent  in  his  prose,  though  his  position  as  a 
poet  is  honorable. 

While  the  armies  were  clashing  at  the  beginning 
of  the  Thirty  Years'  War,  a  certain  versifier,  Martin 
Opitz  von  Boberfeld,  appeared,  becoming  the  centre 
of  a  group  of  mediocre  poets  known  as  the  "  First 
Silesian  School."  Opitz  deserves  this  praise  :  that 
he  loved  his  native  tongue,  sought  to  improve  it,  while 
making  it  the  vehicle  of  his  own  thoughts,  and  used 
all  his  influence  —  which  came  to  be  considerable  — 
to  bring  it  into  honor.  Lohenstein  and  Hoffmans- 
waldau,  a  little  later,  are  centres  of  the  "  Second  Sile- 
sian School,"  whose  characteristics  may  be  summed 
up  in  the  one  word  "  worthlessness."  It  is  pleas- 
ant to  turn  from  this  barrenness  to  a  department  of 
poetry  in  which  the  sad  years  during  and  following 
the  Thirty  Years'  War  show  a  really  rich  yield. 
From  the  long  agony  of  the  German  nation  were 
wrung  a  body  of  the  noblest  hymns.  It  has  been 
well  said  that  the  most  significant  fact  of  the  period 


244  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

is  that  its  truest  literary  achievements  are  in  a  de- 
partment in  which  no  other  Aryan  people  has  ex- 
celled, and  which  is  really  as  alien  to  the  German  as 
to  the  French  and  English  intellect.1  The  hymns  of 
Paul  Flemming,  and  especially  of  Paul  Gerhardt, 
surpass  even  those  of  their  English  contemporaries, 
George  Herbert  and  Vaughan,  —  deserving  to  be 
classed  with  those  of  Luther,  and  only  inferior  to 
the  great  Hebrew  outbursts.  Gerhardt,  a  Lutheran 
pastor,  long  resident  in  Berlin,  —  losing  his  place 
through  his  opposition  to  certain  plans  of  the  Great 
Elector, — was  a  model  of  piety.  He  wrote  one  hun- 
dred and  twenty  songs,  which  are  outpourings  of  the 
truest  devoutness,  almost  without  exception  fault- 
less examples  of  the  poetry  of  religion. 

The  prose  of  the  seventeenth  century  offers  still 
less  that  is  worthy  of  attention  than  the  poetry. 
Those  who  wrote,  in  large  majority,  preferred  to 
use  Latin,  even  when  their  knowledge  of  that  lan- 
guage was  most  imperfect ;  where  German  was  the 
medium,  it  was  so  interlarded  with  foreign  expres- 
sions that  it  became  scarcely  recognizable  as  Ger- 
man, the  mongrel  result  receiving  from  Leibnitz  the 
name  of  "  Misch-masch."  If  it  were  the  history  of 
philosophy,  instead  of  belles-lettres,  that  was  our 
subject,  a  large  space  would  be  needed  for  the  great 
name  of  Leibnitz.  Like  the  scholars  of  his  time  in 
general,  however,  he  turned  his  back  on  his  native 
tongue,  writing  little  except  in  German  and  French. 
It  deserves  to  be  mentioned  that  he  did  so  unwill- 


Sime's  Life  of  Lessing. 


THE    THIRTY    YEARS'    WAR.  245 

ingly,  in  the  idea  that  circumstances  forced  him  to 
it.  A  paper  in  German,  in  which  he  criticised  se- 
verely the  "  Misch-masch  "  of  his  time,  and  pleaded 
earnestly  for  the  culture  of  his  native  language,  is 
one  of  the  light  streaks  amid  the  darkness.  Other 
such  streaks  are  that  his  disciple  Wolf  thought  it 
worth  while  to  spread  abroad  his  master's  theories 
in  German ;  and  that  a  bold  professor  at  Halle 
(Thomasius)  ventured,  amid  the  execrations  of  the 
learned  world,  to  lecture  to  his  students  in  their 
mother  tongue. 

The  two  hundred  years  from  the  death  of  Luther 
to  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  century  are  a  time 
of  night,  not  absolutely  rayless,  but  full  of  gloom 
most  oppressive.  England  saw  meanwhile  the  Eliza- 
bethan period,  France  the  age  of  Louis  XIV.  But 
the  land  so  long  silent  and  dark  was  to  be  glorified 
in  its  turn  by  the  sun-burst. 


PAET  IL-THE  SECOND  PERIOD  OF  BLOOM. 
CHAPTER  X. 

LESSING. 

We  have  considered  the  dreariness  of  the  Thirty 
Years'  War,  and  the  long  period  of  exhaustion 
which  followed,  during  which,  in  literature,  so  few 
names  appear  deserving  of  mention.  We  have  now 
reached  the  eighteenth  century.  In  one  state  of 
Germany,  at  least,  a  strong  man  has  appeared  as 
ruler  whose  work  has  done  something  toward  lifting 
the  Germans  from  their  depression.  The  great 
elector,  at  the  end  of  the  seventeenth  century,  has 
laid  the  foundations  of  the  power  of  Prussia,  giving 
place,  at  his  death,  to  the  first  king,  who  in  turn 
gives  way  to  the  memorable  Frederick  William  I. 
The  reader  of  Carlyle's  Frederick  will  retain  forever 
the  vivid  portrait  of  the  coarse,  rugged,  eccentric — 
sometimes  almost  insane  —  old  monarch,  who  yet 
possessed  a  certain  heroism,  and  set  in  some  ways, 
for  a  corrupt  time,  an  example  of  honesty.  When 
the  sceptre  falls  from  his  hand  it  is  grasped  by  the 
great  Frederick,  a  soul  no  less  marked  for  com- 
mand than  the  mightiest  leaders.  With  him  Prussia 
becomes  great ;  the  rest  of  Germany,  however,  con- 
tinues to  languish,  a  figure  with  noble  traits,  like 
that  of  Maria  Theresa,  and  Karl  August  of  Weimar, 
now  and  then  appearing,  but  the  rulers  for  the 


LESSING.  247 

most  part  the  most  despicable  of  their  class,  devoid 
of  patriotism,  rotten  with  vices,  unscrupulous  in 
tyranny,  —  to  the  extent  of  selling  their  subjects  for 
foreign  wars  like  sheep  for  the  shambles.  France, 
towering  to  the  west,  subordinates  everything. 
When  the  glory  of  Louis  XIV.  is  extinguished,  the 
prestige  of  the  foreigner  is  undiminished ;  for  the 
most  part,  in  the  hundred  petty  courts  of  Ger- 
many, we  behold  a  world  of  apes,  whose  talk,  whose 
dress,  whose  manners,  whose  revolting  vices,  are 
patterned  after  those  of  the  riotous  society  which 
was  ground  to  pieces  at  length  for  its  sins  between 
the  jaws  of  a  monster,  —  the  French  revolution.1 

Before  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  century  a 
critic  and  poet  appears  in  Leipsig  —  Gottsched  — 
who,  although  himself  an  imitator,  and  seeing  no 
possibilities  for  German  literature  except  by  fol- 
lowing in  the  track  of  France,  was  in  several  ways 
helpful ;  perhaps  he  was  most  so  as  an  obstacle  to 
be  striven  against  by  the  champions  who  needed 
some  such  gymnastic  to  help  them  in  the  acquisition 
of  strength,  —  champions  destined  to  bring  in  a  bet- 
ter time.  In  opposition  to  Gottsched  —  who  was 
of  sufficient  importance  to  become  the  centre  of  a 
considerable  school  —  stood  certain  Swiss  writers 
living  at  Zurich,  Bodmer  and  Breitinger ;  also  men 
who  came  to  have  many  adherents,  who  liked  Eng- 
lish models,  as  Gottsched  liked  the  French,  and  who 
also  brushed  the  dust  off  of  some  of  the  long-forgot- 
ten treasures,  holding  them  up  to  be  admired  and 


1  Vehse :   Geschichte  der  europaischen  Hofe. 


248  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

imitated;  in  particular  they  brought  to  light  the 
long-lost  Nibelungen  Lied.  We  must  not  forget  the 
real  deserts  of  these  pioneers,  —  discredited  and 
superseded  though  they  were  as  time  went  on. 
Through  Gottsched  the  fantastic  unnaturalness  of 
the  Second  Silesian  School  was  overcome.  The 
effort  of  these  affected  writers  after  pompous  and 
learned  periods  had  produced  a  style  than  which 
nothing  could  be  worse  ;  in  opposition  to  which  the 
Leipsig  critic,  though  with  a  theory  in  some  ways 
quite  erroneous,  strove  for  purity,  and  a  dignity  that 
should  not  be  stilted.  The  great  writers  of  the  age 
of  Louis  XIV.  had  but  just  passed  away,  and  it  was 
natural  that  Gottsched  should  have  seen  in  them 
the  best  models  for  the  writers  of  his  own  race.  He 
found  little  in  English  literature  worthy  of  notice, 
and  felt,  with  Voltaire,  that  even  Shakespeare  was 
a  wild  barbarian,  whose  genius  could  not  atone  for 
his  rudeness.  The  Swiss,  on  the  other  hand,  Bod- 
merand  Breitinger,  liked  the  English.  They  estab- 
lished a  periodical  after  the  plan  of  the  "  Spec- 
tator ; ' '  they  found  fault  with  French  writers  as  too 
formal  and  artificial,  and  demanded  nature.  All 
this  Gottsched  fought  valiantly ;  he  was  really  a 
stalwart  character,  having  in  him  the  stuff  of  a  sol- 
dier ;  indeed,  he  had  to  flee  from  home  in  his  youth 
to  avoid  the  recruiting  officers,  who  saw  in  him  ma- 
terial for  a  grenadier.  He  declared  that  English 
poets  would  never  receive  recognition  in  Germany, — 
much  less  be  imitated, — sounding  all  the  time  the 
praises  of  the  French.  Before  giving  up  Gottsched 
I  must  quote  from  the  autobiography  of  Gothe  an 


LESSING.  249 

amusing  account  of  a  visit  paid  by  him  in  his  youth 
to  Gottsched,  when  the  prestige  of  the  literary  mag- 
nate was  as  yet  unbroken  :  1 

"  I  shall  never  forget  our  introduction  at  Gott- 
sched' s  ;  it  was  characteristic  of  the  man.  He  lived 
in  a  handsome  first-floor  at  the  '  Golden  Bear.'  The 
old  book-seller  had  given  him  these  apartments 
for  life,  in  consideration  of  the  benefits  arising  to 
his  business  from  the  works  of  his  guest.  We  were 
announced.  The  servant  told  us  his  master  would 
be  with  us  immediately,  and  showed  us  into  a  spa- 
cious room.  Perhaps  we  did  not  comprehend  a 
sign  he  made  us.  We  thought  he  was  directing  us 
into  an  adjoining  chamber,  on  entering  which  we  be- 
held a  whimsical  scene.  Gottsched  appeared  at 
the  same  instant,  at  an  opposite  door.  He  was 
enormously  corpulent.  He  wore  a  damask  dressing- 
gown  lined  with  red  taffeta.  His  monstrous  bald 
head  was  bare,  contrary  to  his  intention,  for  his  ser- 
vant rushed  in  at  the  same  instant,  by  a  side  door, 
with  a  long  wig  in  his  hand,  the  curls  of  which  de- 
scended below  the  shoulders.  He  presented  it  to 
his  master  with  a  trembling  hand.  Gottsched,  with 
the  greatest  apparent  serenity,  took  the  wig  with  his 
left  hand,  with  which  he  dexterously  fitted  it  to  his 
head,  while  with  his  right  hand  he  gave  the  poor 
fellow  a  most  vigorous  box  on  the  ear,  which  sent 
him  to  the  door  in  a  pirouette,  like  a  valet  in  a  play, 
after  which  the  old  pedagogue,  turning  to  us  with 
an  air  of  dignity,  requested  us  to  be  seated,  and 


Dichtung  und  Wahrheit. 


250  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

conversed  with  us  very  politely  for  a  considerable 
time." 

The  bluff  old  autocrat  played  a  part  somewhat 
similar  to  that  of  his  contemporary  in  England,  Dr. 
Samuel  Johnson,  whom  he  seems  to  have  resembled 
in  his.  person  and  some  of  his  traits.  Unlike  his 
English  counterpart,  however,  the  German  potentate 
was  dethroned  and  set  aside,  even  in  his  lifetime, 
in  a  way  that  is  pathetic.  In  the  middle  of  the 
century,  however,  his  prestige  was  unbroken,  and 
there  was  no  thought  in  literature  or  social  life  but 
of  servilely  following  the  French  precedents.  In 
1750,  Voltaire,  writing  from  Potsdam,  just  after 
his  arrival  in  Prussia,  could  say,  "  I  find  myself  in 
France  here.  Our  language  alone  is  spoken.  Ger- 
man is  only  for  soldiers  and  horses  ;  it  is  only  neces- 
sary for  the  journey."  A  young  man  just  in  that 
year  twenty-one  years  old  was  already  beginning  to 
break  a  path  for  something  better. 

Gotthold  Ephraim  Lessing  was  born  at  Kamenz, 
in  Saxony,  descended  on  both  sides  from  lines  of 
Lutheran  pastors,  —  men  who  had  fought  in  the 
stern  battle  of  the  faiths  during  the  years  of  trial, 
the  while  wrestling  in  mind  with  many  a  theological 
subtlety,  transmitting  at  last  an  extraordinary  sharp- 
ness and  stoutness  to  the  boy  Gotthold.  His  father 
was  a  man  of  decided  intellectual  power.  His 
mother,  unlike  the  mothers  of  most  distinguished 
men,  was  a  person  not  at  all  remarkable  in  mind 
or  character.  At  twelve  he  was  sent  to  a  school 
endowed  from  the  funds  of  a  suppressed  monastery, 


LESSING.  251 

where  his  brightness  was  so  apparent  that  the  mas- 
ter said  he  was  a  horse  that  must  have  double 
fodder.  He  seized  upon  everything  within  his 
reach,  —  Latin,  Greek,  several  modern  languages, 
and  mathematics,  in  which  latter  study  he  was 
especially  proficient.  At  seventeen  he  went  to  the 
University  of  Leipsig.  His  father,  the  pastor  of 
Kamenz,  his  mother,  —  who,  like  the  Scotch  good- 
wife,  could  appreciate  no  eminence  except  that  her 
son  "  should  wag  his  pow  in  a  pu'pit,"  — wished  him 
to  study  theology,  but  for  this  he  had  slight  inclina- 
tion, giving  himself  with  great  zeal  to  the  study  of 
general  literature.  He  early  began  to  struggle  out 
of  the  limits  within  which  his  friends  desired  to  con- 
fine him.  In  the  society  of  Leipsig — in  which,  as  a 
brilliant  youth,  he  soon  became  somewhat  known  — 
he  grew  conscious  of  awkwardness,  and,  for  the 
sake  of  bodily  training,  took  lessons  in  riding,  fenc- 
ing, and  dancing.  It  was  a  still  further  departure 
from  what  seemed  propriety  in  the  family  of  a 
Lutheran  pastor  of  those  days  when  he  began  to 
associate  with  the  members  of  a  theatrical  troupe. 
The  drama  attracted  him  in  fact  beyond  everything. 
In  his  boyhood  he  had  read  Plautus  and  Terence 
with  especial  delight.  He  aspired  himself  to  dra- 
matic authorship,  and  believing  that  a  successful 
playwright  must  know  the  stage  thoroughly,  he 
sought  the  theatre.  The  trouble  of  the  parents  was 
further  aggravated  when  they  learned,  besides,  that 
there  was  among  his  associates  a  certain  free-think- 
ing youth,  a  few  years  the  senior  of  Gotthold,  who 
had  left  Kamenz  in  bad  repute.  The  son  was  sum- 


252  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

moned  home,  but  made  it  soon  appear  that  he  had 
not  been  wasting  his  time.  The  pastor  was  really 
learned  and  discriminating,  and  soon  discovered  in 
the  boy  rich  treasures  of  thorough  and  manifold 
knowledge.  They  had  been  gained  in  somewhat 
unusual  ways,  but  Gotthold  easily  got  permission  to 
return  to  Leipsig.  Even  thus  early  he  was  rising 
into  fame.  Leipsig,  the  home  of  Gottsched,  was 
the  seat  of  much  literary  activity.  The  young  men 
of  the  university  were  encouraged  to  write,  and 
Lessing's  contributions  to  journals  had  attracted 
attention.  We  presently  find  him  in  Berlin ;  then, 
to  please  his  father,  in  Wittenberg,  which  had  a 
more  orthodox  reputation ;  but  the  place  was 
cramped,  and  his  life  became  intolerable  there. 
Berlin  was  again  sought,  where  we  soon  find  him 
joined  in  close  friendship  —  destined  to  last  through 
life — with  a  company  of  brilliant  young  men,  several 
of  whom  rose  with  him  into  fame.  The  most  notice- 
able one  among  them  was  a  certain  young  clerk  in  a 
silk  factory,  with  whom  he  often  played  chess,  who 
afterwards  was  known  as  one  of  the  best  thinkers 
and  purest  characters  of  his  time,  —  Moses  Mendels- 
sohn. 

Lessing's  course  was  somewhat  erratic, — not 
through  instability  of  character,  but  force  of  cir- 
cumstances. Now  he  is  for  a  time  at  Leipsig,  now 
again  in  Berlin,  now  accompanying  a  young  mer- 
chant on  a  journey,  in  the  course  of  which  they 
reach  Holland.  He  is  constantly  busy  ;  his  powers 
of  acquirement  are  extraordinary  ;  his  memory  is 
wonderful.  He  provides  for  himself  the  "  double 


LESSING.  253 

fodder  ' '  which  his  old  teacher  foresaw  was  a  neces- 
sity for  him,  and  develops  into  commensurate  intel- 
lectual stature  and  strength .  Meantime  his  fame  con- 
stantly grows  as  the  master  of  remarkable  erudition, 
and  a  style  as  remarkable  in  force  and  point.  His 
papers  are  sometimes  critical,  sometimes  fables, 
poems,  dramas.  His  life  no  doubt  shocked  the  con- 
ventionalities of  those  days,  and  caused  much  anxi- 
ety in  the  parsonage  at  home.  Some  of  his  lyrics 
written  at  this  time  are  lawless  to  the  verge  of 
license.  His  impulses,  however,  were  noble,  and  his 
work  for  the  most  part  directed  to  worthy  ends. 
No  son  was  ever  more  dutiful  and  generous,  pinched 
though  he  was  himself  by  great  poverty.  At  length, 
during  the  Seven  Years'  War,  he  appears  at  Breslau, 
in  Silesia,  secretary  of  Tauentzien,  the  general  in 
command,  —  a  position  of  responsibility,  and  not  at 
all  a  literary  one, — in  which  he  remains  five  years, 
showing  good  capacity  for  aifairs,  and  creating  the 
impression  that  he  has  forsaken  the  life  of  a  scholar 
and  writer.  There  was  indeed  little  enough  encour- 
agement in  that  direction.  Prussia  was  a  camp 
merely ;  Austria  little  better ;  Silesia  and  Saxony 
lying  between,  war-worn  regions,  any  one  of  whose 
plains  might  see  to-morrow  the  shock  of  contending 
armies.  It  marks  grandly  the  superiority  of  Les- 
sing  that  in  the  turmoil,  although  recognizing  the 
powers  and  respecting  the  harsh  virtue  of  Frederick, 
no  narrow  considerations  affect  him.  His  sympa- 
thies are  broad  as  the  world,  and  he  labors  to 
melt  into  brotherly  feeling  the  national  and  class 
prejudices  everywhere  rife  about  him.  He  was  far 


254  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

enough  from  having  given  up  his  old  pursuits.  At 
the  beginning  of  his  Breslau  life  he  wrote,  "  I  will 
for  a  time  spin  round  myself  like  an  ugly  cater- 
pillar, that  I  may  be  able  to  come  to  light  again  as 
a  brilliant  butterfly."  That  he  spun  to  some  pur- 
pose will  presently  appear.  Note  must  be  made 
here  of  what  is  the  worst  blot  upon  his  fame.  At 
Breslau  he  developed  a  passion  for  gambling,  which 
became  so  excessive  that  Mendelssohn  almost  gave 
him  up  for  lost;  and  even  Tauentzien,  a  frank  and 
manly  soldier,  expostulated.  Without  attempting 
to  excuse  the  fault,  it  is  right  to  say  that  in  the  so- 
ciety of  the  last  century  gaming  was  regarded  with 
quite  different  eyes  from  at  present.  What  Lessing 
sought  was  excitement,  —  no  sordid  end.  He  might 
easily  have  grown  rich  in  kis  office,  but  was  too 
honest. 

When  the  war  is  done,  Lessing  promptly  resumes 
his  old  career,  although  it  offers  him  little  hope  of 
emolument,  —  indeed  of  a  bare  livelihood,  —  and 
presently  appear  two  masterpieces,  each  in  a  differ- 
ent field,  which  he  has  silently  elaborated  during  his 
years  at  Breslau.  The  butterfly  bursts  forth  from 
its  cocoon.  The  one  is  "Minna  von  Barnhelm," 
the  first  proper  German  comedy,  the  other  "  Lao- 
koon,"  the  best  work  of  German  criticism.  Bv 
these  his  position  was  established  as  the  first  writer 
of  Germany. 

In  those  days  there  was  no  reading  public,  which, 
by  buying  an  author's  books,  could  make  him  in- 
dependent. In  Germany,  as  in  England,  only  such 
writers  could  keep  their  heads  above  water  as  could 


LESSING.  255 

secure  the  patronage  of  the  great.  The  fine  inde- 
pendence of  character  of  Lessing  made  impossible 
to  him  even  the  slight  degree  of  complaisance  which, 
with  his  conspicuous  merits,  would  have  secured  him 
ease.  He  rejected  the  professorship  of  eloquence  at 
Konigsberg  because  every  year  he  must  write  a 
eulogy  upon  the  king.  Thrift  would  in  all  prob- 
ability have  followed  only  a  little  fawning,  —  all  the 
easier  for  Lessing,  since  he  really  felt  the  monarch's 
greatness.  But  he  adhered  to  his  manhood  and  his 
poverty.  It  is  a  strange  inconsistency  in  Frederick 
that,  keen  as  he  was,  thorough  German,  and  regen- 
erator of  Germany  too,  he  remained  through  life 
obstinately  blind  to  the  worth  of  the  literature  of 
his  land,  which,  phoenix-like,  before  his  very  eyes, 
swept  from  its  ashes  with  flight  so  majestic  into  the 
empyrean.  The  hope  at  Konigsberg  failed.  The 
fine  prize  of  the  librarianship  at  Berlin  was  most 
unworthily  bestowed  upon  an  obscure  Frenchman. 
As  the  only  thing  that  offered,  the  illustrious  man 
went  to  Hamburg,  where  an  association  of  rich  mer- 
chants proposed  to  establish  a  theatre  in  which  the 
national  drama  should  be  fostered,  and  offered  to 
Lessing  the  post  of  critic  and  director.  The  result 
was  the  "Hamburg  Dramaturgy,"  a  critical  work 
of  hardly  less  moment  than  the  "  Laokoon."  But 
the  enterprise  was  a  failure.  Lessing' s  fame  had 
grown,  but  he  had  barely  bread  to  eat  or  clothes  to 
wear.  He  was  wanted  in  Mannheim,  in  Berlin,  in 
Vienna,  but  everywhere  his  noble  pride  stood  in  the 
way.  A  little  courtier-like  fawning  would  have 
smoothed  his  path ;  but  nature  had  left  his  knees 


256  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

unhinged.  He  stood  neglected  in  his  sturdy  man- 
hood, hungry  and  threadbare,  while  sycophants 
caught  the  prizes.  It  is  only  natural  that  sometimes 
when  they  meddled  with  him  he  turned  upon  them 
savagely,  —  as  upon  a  certain  pert  young  professor, 
Klotz,  whom  he  extinguished  with  a  polemic  energy 
which  ranks  among  the  most  impressive  exhibitions 
of  Lessing's  power. 

At  length  the  duke  of  Brunswick  offered  him  the 
care  of  his  library  at  Wolfe  nbiittel,  and  was  willing 
to  comply  with  the  condition  which  the  threadbare 
independent  demanded,  —  that  what  he  might  choose 
to  write  should  be  submitted  to  no  censorship.  The 
library  was  extensive,  but  the  situation  was  remote 
and  unhealthy,  and  the  salary  very  meagre.  His  fame 
was  still  wider  through  the  publication  of  his  second 
great  play,  "Emilia  Galotti."  But  Lessing  was 
plunged  into  dismal  surroundings,  —  without  culti- 
vated companionship,  poor,  sick,  the  victim  rather 
than  the  protege,  of  his  master.  He  was  valued  only 
as  giving  prestige  to  the  little  dukedom.  The  prom- 
ises made  to  him,  scanty  as  they  were,  were  never 
fulfilled  ;  but  the  duke's  mistresses  lived  in  splendor. 
His  confinement  was  not  unbroken.  He  went  once 
to  Vienna,  and  it  is  hard  to  understand  how  one 
could  be  at  the  same  time  so  much  esteemed  and 
so  much  neglected.  The  great  and  wise  of  the  cap- 
ital did  him  honor.  Special  representations  of  his 
plays  took  place  in  the  court  theatre,  and  Maria 
Theresa  received  him  with  all  respect,  consulting 
him  deferentially  upon  various  points.  They  felt 
that  Lessing,  with  as  sharp  insight  as  was  ever 


LESSINGf.  257 

granted  to  mortal,  and  such  bold  independence,  was 
dangerous.  They  admired  him,  feared  him,  and  let 
him  suffer  on.  In  the  train  of  Prince  Leopold  of 
Brunswick  he  was  enabled  to  visit  Italy.  The 
prince  was  a  capable  and  enthusiastic  youth,  in 
whose  companionship  Lessing  must  have  found  much 
to  enjoy.  The  great  writer  was  received  with  all 
honor  at  Milan,  Naples,  and  Rome.  At  forty-seven 
he  was  married  to  a  woman  worthy  of  him,  much 
beloved,  but  for  whom  his  poverty  forced  him  to  wait 
years.  Even  here  he  was  beneath  his  baleful  star. 
She  died  early,  in  child-birth,  and  a  strange  bitter- 
ness in  Lessing' s  letters  tells  the  agony  with  which 
his  soul  was  wrung.  From  the  first,  his  labors  at 
Wolfe nbiittel  had  been  incessant.  He  discovered  in 
the  library  valuable  manuscripts  which  had  long 
been  lost.  By  the  publication  of  portions  of  a  work 
by  a  radical  thinker,  Reimarus — the  "  Wolfenbiittel 
Fragments" — he  called  forth  the  ire  of  the  more 
rigid  Lutherans,  with  whose  champion,  the  Pastor 
Gotze  of  Hamburg,  he  engaged  in  a  controversy,  in 
which  he  showed  the  power  of  a  Demosthenes  or  a 
Junius.  After  the  death  of  his  wife  he  lingered 
three  years,  broken  in  body  and  soul,  but  with  tri- 
umphant genius,  producing  work  after  work  of 
power  as  remarkable  as  had  belonged  to  the  earlier 
works,  of  tone  still  loftier.  To  this  time  belong 
the  "  Education  of  the  Human  Race,"  the  ««  Con- 
versations for  Freemasons,"  and  lastly  the  sublime 
play  of  "  Nathan  the  Wise,"  which  is  characterized 
by  a  loftiness  of  sentiment  for  which  the  world  is 
not  yet  ready,  and  has  been  called,  after  Gothe's 


258  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

"Faust,"  the  most  peculiar  and  characteristic  pro- 
duction of  German  genius.  On  the  fifteenth  of 
January,  1781,  at  the  age  of  fifty-three,  when  Gothe 
was  approaching  the  fulness  of  his  fame,  and 
Schiller  had  just  appeared  with  "  The  Kobbers,"  the 
day  advancing  gloriously  of  which  he  had  been  the 
morning-star,  Lessing  died. 

Lessing  was,  before  everything  else,  a  critic, — 
taking  the  term  in  a  high  sense,  which  I  shall  pres- 
ently explain.  He  himself  confesses  that  he  was 
not  a  true  poet :  "  I  do  not  feel  in  myself  a  living 
spring  which  wells  up  through  its  own  force,  shoot- 
ing forth  in  fresh,  pure  jets  ;  everything  comes  from 
me  through  pumps  and  conduits."  1  With  his  crit- 
ical power,  however,  he  had  ascertained  in  poetry 
the  essence,  and  it  is  a  mark  of  his  greatness  that 
he  could  compel  the  working  of  his  talents  in  fields 
which  nature  had  made  alien  to  him.  To  a  certain 
degree  only  could  he  compel.  His  dramas  have 
everything  but  the  poetical  breath,  —  that  indescrib- 
able peculiarity  which  streams  out  in  every  thought 
and  word  of  genuine  poetry.  Lessing' s  dramas  are 
less  the  product  of  creative  fancy  than  reflecting 
reason.  Still,  he  was  very  great.  Said  Gothe, 
"  Lessing  wished  to  disclaim  for  himself  the  title  of 
poet,  but  his  immortal  works  testify  against  him- 
self." 

Of  his  earlier  writings,  no  high  place  can  be  as- 
signed to  his  lyrics.  Their  philosophy  was  false, 

1  Hamburgische  Dramaturgic. 


LESSING.  259 

and  their  tone  sometimes  hardly  unobjectionable. 
Lessing  himself  urged  in  defence  that  their  philos- 
ophy was  not  his  own,  but  assumed.  His  some- 
what prudish  elder  sister  once  threw  a  parcel  of  the 
poems  into  the  flames  ;  in  revenge  for  which  Les- 
sing, roughly  playful,  threw  a  handful  of  snow  into 
her  bosom,  —  to  cool  her  excessive  zeal,  as  he  said. 
They  are  best  to  be  judged  as  the  product  of  Les- 
sing's  time  of  fermentation,  before  the  noble  wine 
had  run  fairly  clear.  While  at  Wittenberg,  Lessing 
wrote  a  series  of  papers  called  "  Vindications,"  l  the 
aim  of  which  is  best  described  in  Lessing' s  own 
words  :  "I  can  have  no  more  agreeable  occupation 
than  to  muster  the  names  of  famous  men,  examine 
their  right  to  immortality,  brush  away  from  them 
undeserved  spots,  separate  from  their  real  greatness 
the  result  of  their  weaknesses,  —  in  short,  do  every- 
thing in  a  moral  way  which  the  superintendent  of  a 
picture-gallery  does  in  a  physical  way."  Lessing 
performed  his  work  with  acuteness,  courage,  and  a 
fine  sense  of  justice.  To  several  great  men  of  the 
past  upon  whom  had  fallen  the  shadow  of  an  un- 
merited obloquy,  he  assigned  due  honor. 

He  often  appeared  to  advantage  in  his  fables. 
One  of  the  best  of  the  collection  is  entitled  "  Zeus 
and  the  Horse."2  "Father  of  beasts  and  men," 
said  the  horse,  approaching  the  throne  of  Zeus, 
"  they  say  I  am  one  of  the  most  beautiful  creatures 
with  which  you  have  adorned  the  world,  and  my 


1  Rettungen. 

2  Taken  from  Sime's  Life  of  Lessing,  vol.  I,  p.  198. 


260  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

self-love  makes  me  believe  it.  But  is  there  nothing 
in  me  that  might  be  improved?  "  "And  what  dost 
thou  think  might  be  improved  in  thee  ? '  *  said  the 
kind  god,  smiling.  "  Perhaps,"  said  the  horse,  "  I 
might  be  more  swift  if  my  legs  were  higher  and 
more  slender.  A  long,  swan's  neck  would  not  de- 
form me,  a  broader  chest  would  increase  my  strength, 
and  I  might  possess,  ready-made,  the  saddle  which 
the  rider  places  upon  me."  "  Good,"  replied  Zeus. 
With  serious  face,  he  uttered  the  word  of  creation, 
and  suddenly  there  stood  before  the  throne  the  ugly 
camel.  The  horse  looked  and  trembled  with  amazed 
horror.  "  Here,"  said  Zeus,  ««  are  higher  and  more 
slender  legs  ;  here  is  a  long,  swan's  neck  ;  here  is  a 
broader  chest ;  here  is  the  saddle  ready-made.  Dost 
thou  wish,  horse,  that  I  should  thus  reshape  thee?" 
The  horse  still  trembled.  "  Go  ! "  continued  Zeus  ; 
"  for  this  time  be  taught  without  being  punished. 
But  that  thou  mayest  sometimes  be  reminded  of  thy 
presumption,  continue  to  exist,  thou  new  creature 
[and  Zeus  cast  a  preserving  glance  at  the  camel] , 
and  may  the  horse  never  look  at  thee  without 
shuddering  !  " 

Through  his  dramas,  Lessing  first  was  recognized 
as  the  greatest  writer  of  his  time,  and  in  this  direc- 
tion "Minna  von  Barnhelm  "  first  became  famous. 
A  critic  of  our  own  time,  of  high  repute,  speaks 
of  "Minna  von  Barnhelm"  as  still  the  best  Ger- 
man comedy.1  Lessing  gathered  the  materials  for 
it  during  his  life  as  government  secretary  at 


1  Julian  Schmidt 


LESSINO.  261 

Breslau,  immediately  after  which,  as  has  been  nar- 
rated, it  was  published.  It  exercised  an  immense 
influence  immediately  upon  its  appearance,  at  once 
in  Berlin  making  German  plays  fashionable  and 
popular,  whereas  before  only  French  plays  had 
been  considered  tolerable.  The  time  is  just  at  the 
close  of  the  Seven  Years'  War.  Prussia  and 
Saxony,  neighbor  states,  have  been  hostile  to  one 
another.  Tellheim,  a  major  of  the  Prussian  army, 
has  advanced  to  the  magistrates  of  the  Saxon  dis- 
trict from  which  he  is  to  exact  a  contribution  the 
sum  required.  Finding  that  they  could  not  pay 
from  their  own  means  without  prostrating  the  terri- 
tory, the  magnanimous  deed  makes  such  an  im- 
pression on  Minna  von  Barnhelm,  a  wealthy  and 
high-born  Saxon  lady,  that  she  seeks  his  acquaint- 
ance, desiring  to  become  his  wife.  Tellheim  recog- 
nizes her  worth,  and  they  are  betrothed.  The  war 
ends,  and  the  honorable  Tellheim  presently  becomes 
an  object  of  suspicion.  He  is  accused  of  having  been 
bribed  by  the  Saxon  magistrates  whom  he  has 
obliged,  and  during  the  investigation  falls  into  sad 
circumstances.  At  this  time  the  piece  begins. 
Tellheim  is  living  at  an  inn,  the  host  of  which 
wishes  to  become  rid  of  him  as  a  moneyless  encum- 
brance. In  despair,  Tellheim  is  forced  to  pawn  his 
engagement  ring,  which  is  recognized  by  Minna 
von  Barnhelm,  who  has  just  arrived  at  the  inn  at 
this  juncture,  searching  for  her  lover.  The  lovers 
meet,  but  Tellheim  holds  it  incompatible  with  his 
honor  to  continue  his  relations  with  her.  He  is 
cast  off  and  suspected,  crippled  by  wounds,  a  beg- 


262  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

gar,  and  must  not  think  of  a  union  with  the  rich 
and  honored  gentlewoman.  Since  no  representa- 
tions avail  to  change  his  conclusion,  Minna  hits 
upon  a  stratagem,  in  which,  it  must  be  confessed, 
there  is  some  sacrifice  of  truth.  She  represents  to 
Tellheim  that  her  love  for  him  has  caused  her  to  be 
disinherited.  She  had  known  the  high-hearted  man 
well.  Just  as  decided  as  he  was  to  resign  her  when 
he  thought  her  rich  is  he  now  that  she  shall  trust 
herself  to  his  protection.  As  his  own  misfortune 
struck  him  down,  made  him  negligent  and  dispir- 
ited, her  misfortune  restores  his  manfulness.  He 
looks  freely  about,  and  feels  strong  and  willing  to 
undertake  everything  for  her.  Meantime  the  major 
receives  a  letter  from  the  king,  in  which  his  inno- 
cence is  recognized,  and  he  is  summoned  to  take 
service  again.  Now  Minna  pretends  that  she,  on 
her  side,  must  break  off  the  relation,  and  cites  all 
the  reasons  which  he  had  before  employed,  even 
returning  the  engagement  ring.  Tellheim  falls 
into  despair  again ;  but  meantime  appears  Minna's 
uncle.  Tellheim,  who  considers  him  her  persecutor, 
thinks  now  only  of  protecting  her  ;  Minna,  however, 
drops  her  ruse,  and  the  uncle,  upon  his  entrance, 
finds  two  happy  people. 

So  meagre  a  sketch  has  little  value  in  giving  one  an 
impression  of  a  play.  It  was  a  vivid  artistic  pre- 
sentment of  contemporary  life,  a  field  now  for  the 
first  time  occupied  by  the  German  drama.  It  is 
evident  that  the  plot  of  the  play  gives  opportunities 
for  both  pathos  and  humor  ;  these  are  well  improved, 
and  certain  subordinate  characters  —  the  villainous 


LESSING.  263 

host,  a  ridiculous  Frenchman,  an  honest  old  ser- 
geant, and  Minna's  lively  waiting-maid  —  stand  in 
an  effective  contrast  with  their  principals.  Les- 
sing  wrote  the  piece  with  high  aims.  He  wished  to 
rebuke  the  disposition  to  ape  the  French  ;  to  rebuke 
the  ruling  powers  for  their  indifference  to  the  sol- 
diers who  had  Avon  the  victories  of  the  "  Seven 
Years'  War;"  in  particular,  to  extinguish  the  pro- 
vincial hate  which  had  taken  deep  root  during  the 
hostilities  in  Prussia  and  Saxony.  By  the  union  of 
the  Prussian  Tellheim  and  the  Saxon  Minna  he 
showed  that  the  dislike  was  unnatural,  and  due  only 
to  sad  political  conditions,  the  national  character  be- 
ing everywhere  the  same.  The  lessons  were  noble, 
and  most  effectively  given. 

Still  grander  was  the  teaching  in  Lessing's  later 
dramas.  Besides  Minna  von  Barnhelm,  there  are 
two  which  count  as  masterpieces  :  '  *  Emilia  Galotti ' ' 
and  ''Nathan  the  Wise;"  the  others  we  need  not 
notice.  With  regard  to  the  "Emilia  Galotti,"  we 
must  pass  it  with  a  momentary  glance,  although  it 
has  been  said  to  be  still,  artistically  considered,  the 
best  German  tragedy.1  Its  plot  is  somewhat  repul- 
sive, resembling  in  some  of  its  features  the  old  Ro- 
man story  of  Virginia.  Its  design  was  to  hold  up 
to  execration  the  baseness  of  the  German  princes, 
with  which  the  land  was  full.  The  names  and  scenes 
were,  indeed,  Italian ;  it  was  a  thin  veil,  however, 
which  the  world  at  once  penetrated  ;  corruption  in 
high  places  heard  and  trembled  at  the  bold,  denounc- 


Julian  Schmidt. 


264  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

ing  voice.  The  glorious  "Nathan  the  Wise"  we 
can  best  consider  in  connection  with  certain  other 
works  which  are  near  it  in  spirit  and  date  of  com- 
position,—  the  closing  years  of  Lessing's  life.  At 
present  we  must  consider  him  in  another  field. 

Madame  de  Stael  has  remarked1  that  perhaps  it 
is  in  Germany  alone  that  literature  has  derived  its 
origin  from  criticism  ;  everywhere  else  criticism  has 
followed  the  great  productions  of  art,  but  in  Ger- 
many it  produced  them.  To  a  large  extent  the  re- 
mark is  true,  and  the  critic  whose  words  proved  to 
be  such  Promethean  fire  was  Lessing.  If  we  would 
describe  Lessing  in  one  word,  that  word  would  be 
"critic;"  but  we  must  understand  the  term  in  an 
elevated  sense.  He  was  sent  into  the  world  to 
judge,  and  we  see  him  standing,  in  his  century,  part- 
ing, unerringly,  the  gold  from  the  dross  in  various 
domains,  —  in  literature  and  art,  in  politics,  morals, 
and  religion.  No  man  of  Teutonic  race  has  pos- 
sessed such  a  touchstone ;  it  is  claimed  that  no 
mortal  has  ever  surpassed  him.2  While  his  search 
for  truth  was  constant,  his  battle  with  hypocrisy  and 
lies  was  just  as  eager  and  constant ;  nor  did  he 
know  the  sensation  of  fear.  I  find  the  expression 
applied  to  him,  that  he  was  logic  become  flesh.3  In 
the  language  which  he  employed  we  may  recognize 
the  clearness  and  charm  of  his  spirit.  Every  ex- 
pression is  perspicuous,  definite,  and  choice.  With 
many  German  writers  we  must  first  vanquish  the 

1  L.  Allemagne. 
3  Gervinus. 
s  Kurz. 


LESSING.  265 

presentation,  in  order  to  press  to  the  thought  which 
it  mistily  wraps.  In  Lessing,  finely  says  a  writer, 
the  presentation  is  so  clear,  the  thought  at  the  first 
view  springs  so  powerfully  forth,  it  almost  appears 
to  have  passed  immediately  out  of  the  spirit  of  the 
thinker  into  ours,  without  being  clothed  at  first  in 
an  exterior  garment.  His  critical  work  consisted 
at  first  of  judgments  of  particular  men  and  books  ; 
afterwards  he  treated  comprehensive  subjects  in  con- 
nected writings.  He  was  a  youth  of  twenty-two 
when  he  began.  From  the  first  independent, 
although  inclined  to  the  views  of  the  Swiss  school, 
he  did  not  submit  entirely  to  its  authority.  From 
the  first  there  was  love  of  truth,  acuteness,  refined 
taste.  At  length,  with  the  "  Laokoon,"  he  enters 
upon  his  second  and  greater  period. 

To  a  shallow  student  the  merits  of  the  "  Lao- 
koon" are  not  apparent,  but  it  is  perhaps  right  to 
say  that  it  appears  a  work  of  power  in  proportion  to 
one's  intellectual  insight.  The  greatest  minds  are 
those  which  have  been  most  impressed  by  it.  Ma- 
caulay  said  of  it,  that  it  filled  him  with  wonder  and 
despair,  so  far  did  it  seem  beyond  his  own  power  of 
accomplishment ;  and  Macaulay  put  no  low  estimate 
upon  what  he  could  do.  Herder,  in  an  afternoon 
and  the  night  following,  read  it  through  with  the 
greatest  eagerness  three  times  ;  and  although,  in  an 
elaborate  criticism,  he  afterwards  took  exception  to 
many  of  its  positions,  he  paid  a  high  tribute  to  its 
value.  The  whole  literary  career  of  Gothe  was  af- 
fected by  it,  and  in  his  old  age  the  poet  glowingly 
acknowledged  his  obligation,  in  a  passage  to  be  here- 
after quoted. 


266  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

The  work  treats  of  the  boundary  between  poetry 
and  the  "formative  arts,"1 — a  name  by  which  Les- 
sing  designates  painting  and  sculpture,  —  the  arts 
which  make  presentations  to  the  eye  by  means  of 
sensible  forms.  It  was  the  fruit  of  long  years  of 
labor  and  investigation,  ripening  slowly  in  Lessing's 
mind  while  he  was  government  secretary  at  Breslau. 
Unfortunately,  like  several  other  of  Lessing's  finest 
works,  it  was  never  completed.  It  was  important 
to  the  development  of  poetry  in  this  way :  that  it 
drove  completely  out  of  view  the  notions  which  un- 
til then  had  been  in  vogue,  substituting  new  ones, 
whose  truth  was  immediately  recognized,  and  which 
soon  showed  themselves  fruitful  and  successful. 

The  Swiss  Breitinger2  had  claimed  that  poetry 
and  painting  were  not  separated  in  their  essence ; 
that,  as  Simonides,  the  Greek  poet,  had  already  said, 
poetry  was  a  speaking  painting ;  painting,  a  dumb 
poetry.  By  this  principle  the  German  poetry  of  that 
time  was  completely  mastered.  Lessing  showed, 
on  the  other  hand,  in  keen  and  close  development, 
that  poetry  and  the  formative  arts  are  different, 
as  well  in  respect  to  the  objects  they  should  strive 
after  as  in  respect  to  the  effects  they  are  adapted  to 
produce.  In  Lessing's  day  lived  a  critic  of  art  of 
the  highest  authority,  for  whom  Lessing  himself  had 
the  profoundest  respect,  and  whom  the  world  still 
holds  in  high  esteem,  —  Winckelmann.  After  hard 
struggles,  the  force  of  Winckelmann' s  genius  at 
length  became  apparent;  from  Germany  he  had 


1  Bildende  KUnste. 
1  Kurz. 


LESSING.  267 

gone  to  Rome,  to  a  position  in  which  he  had  the 
fairest  opportunities  for  the  study  of  antique  art, 
and  was  now  at  the  summit  of  his  fame.  A  remark 
contained  in  a  treatise  by  Winckelmann  suggested 
the  "  Laokoon."  The  remark  was  that  the  univer- 
sal and  salient  distinction  of  Greek  masterpieces  in 
painting  and  sculpture  was  a  certain  noble  simplicity 
and  quiet  greatness,  as  well  in  the  pose  of  the  fig- 
ures as  also  in  their  expression.  By  way  of  exam- 
ple, he  cites  the  famous  group  of  "  Laokoon  "  and 
his  two  sons  attacked  by  serpents.  The  poet  Virgil 
represents  ' '  Laokoon ' '  as  crying  ;  the  unknown 
sculptor  of  the  group,  on  the  other  hand,  in  a  more 
dignified  way,  with  lips  just  parted,  and  with  no 
distortion  of  the  features,  as  if  uttering  a  groan ; 
the  poet  therefore,  claims  Winckelmann,  stands  far 
behind  the  sculptor. 

At  the  outset  of  his  treatise  Lessing  steps  forth  in 
defence  of  the  poet.  The  highest  law  of  sculpture 
and  painting,  he  claims,  is  beauty ;  the  object  of 
these  —  the  formative  arts  —  is  to  satisfy  the  eye, 
which  nothing  but  the  beautiful  can  delight.  In  vain 
does  the  formative  artist  envy  the  poet  the  faculty  of 
seizing  and  characterizing  all  objects,  and  of  over- 
stepping the  limits  of  the  beautiful.  The  poet  labors, 
not  for  the  eye,  the  seeing  faculty,  but  for  some- 
thing broader,  —  the  imagination.  The  sculptor  did 
not  represent  "Laokoon ' '  as  crying,  with  wide-open 
mouth,  because  crying  distorts  the  face  in  a  repul- 
sive way,  and  so  offends  beauty.  Virgil,  however, 
needed  not  to  pay  this  heed,  because  he,  as  poet, 
was  not  forced  to  create  a  form  which  the  eyes 


268  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

should  perceive,  and  which  must  remain  fixed  in  the 
one  situation  chosen.  The  sculptor  of  the  "  Lao- 
koon ' '  no  doubt  had  in  mind  in  his  presentation  the 
description  of  Virgil.  "Whence  does  it  come," 
says  Lessing,  "that  the  artist  and  poet  have  com- 
prehended and  treated  the  subject  in  ways  so  differ- 
ent ?  ' '  The  critic  goes  on  to  show  —  and  here  ap- 
pears his  great  acuteness  —  that  the  reason  lies  in 
the  essential  difference  between  the  two  arts.  For- 
mative art  —  painting  and  sculpture  —  represents  its 
object  in  space  ;  poetry  represents  its  object  in  time  ; 
formative  art  by  means  of  shape  and  color ;  poetry 
by  articulate  tones  ;  bodies,  with  their  visible  quali- 
ties, the  particular  objects  of  the  first ;  actions,  of 
the  second.  To  be  sure,  formative  art  can  repre- 
sent actions,  but  only  through  hints  in  shapes  ;  and 
just  so  can  poetry  represent  shapes,  but  only  through 
hints  in  actions.  In  numerous  examples  Lessing 
shows  how  impossible  it  is  for  the  poet  to  represent 
bodily  shapes  in  all  their  particulars,  showing  how 
even  great  poets  have  failed.  Homer,  for  whom 
Lessing  had  a  veneration  almost  superstitious,  never 
errs  by  attempting  such  representations.  In  the 
Iliad,  events  are  fully  narrated,  but  no  long  descrip- 
tions are  given  of  objects.  A  ship  is  simply  the 
"  black  ship,' '  the  "  hollow,"  or  the  "  well-rowed, 
black  ship."  Of  the  stationary  object,  Homer  says 
no  more  ;  but  when  he  speaks  of  an  action,  or  a 
series  of  actions,  connected  with  a  ship,  —  such  as 
rowing,  embarking,  or  landing, — he  tells  the  story 
fully.  Nevertheless,  the  representation  of  bodily 
objects  does  not  lie  entirely  without  the  domain  of 


LESSING.  269 

poetry.  How  it  may  be  done,  we  see  from  watching 
Homer's  method.  When  the  poet  would  give  us  a 
notion  of  Agamemnon's  dress,  he  makes  the  king 
clothe  himself,  putting  on  one  garment  after  an- 
other, and,  at  last,  grasping  the  sceptre  ;  so  reduc- 
ing, as  it  were,  the  description  of  the  magnificent 
object  —  the  king  in  his  splendor  —  to  a  description 
of  events.1  Again,  in  considering  the  shield  of 
Achilles,  Vulcan  is  represented  as  busy  with  its  fab- 
rication ;  one  by  one  before  our  eyes,  as  he  labors, 
appear  the  figures  with  which  the  shield  is  em- 
bossed.2 "  He  wishes  to  paint  the  bow  of  Panda- 
rus, — a  bow  of  horn,  of  such  and  such  length,  well 
polished,  and  at  both  ends  tipped  with  gold.  What 
does  he  do?  Does  he  enumerate  all  these  proper- 
ties, one  after  the  other,  thus  dryly?  By  no  means  ; 
that  would  be  to  sketch  such  a  bow,  to  write  down 
its  qualities,  but  not  to  paint  it.  He  begins  with 
the  hunt  of  the  wild  goat3  from  whose  horns  the 
bow  was  made.  Pandarus  had  waylaid  it  among 
the  rocks  and  slain  it ;  the  horns  were  of  extraor- 
dinary size,  therefore  he  destined  them  for  a  bow ; 
they  come  to  the  workshop  ;  the  artist  joins  them, 
polishes  them,  tips  them.  And  so,  with  the  poet, 
we  see  gradually  advance  towards  completion  that 
which  the  painter  could  not  treat  except  as  com- 
pleted."4 

Such  is  the  limitation  of  poetry.     It  has  power  in- 


1  Iliad,  x. 

2  Iliad,  xviii. 
8  Iliad,  iv. 

4  From  the  Laokoon ;  translated  in  Sime's  Life  of  Lessing. 


270  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

ferior  to  the  formative  arts  in  respect  to  the  imita- 
tion of  beauty,  — that  which  speaks  to  the  eye  ;  on  the 
other  hand,  its  sphere  is  much  broader  than  that  of 
the  formative  arts,  the  whole  immeasurable  realm  of 
nature  standing  open  to  its  imitation.  It  can  repre- 
sent the  hateful,  even  the  terrible  and  repulsive. 
All  this  is  beyond  formative  art,  which  Lessing 
urges  is  bound  by  its  highest  law,  — that  of  beauty. 
It  can  show  but  one  attitude,  one  expression,  and 
what  sculptor  or  painter  would  wish  to  select  for 
that  one  phase  what  causes  pain  and  disgust?  The 
poet,  on  the  other  hand,  by  passages  of  splendor, 
can  redeem  a  spot  of  darkness  ;  indeed,  by  contrast 
with  darkness,  heighten  the  splendor.  The  two  arts 
are  sisters,  then,  but  must  always  be  clearly  dis- 
tinguished. Poetry  must  narrate  events ;  painting 
and  sculpture  represent  coexistent  objects. 

In  point  of  style,  the  "  Laokoon  "  is  excellent. 
It  is  refreshing  enough,  after  a  struggle  with  the 
lumbering,  involved  sentences  in  which  so  many  of 
the  German  thinkers  have  put  their  ideas,  to  turn  to 
the  brief,  clear  periods  in  which  Lessing  "  econo- 
mizes the  attention  "  1  of  his  readers.  An  immense 
range  of  learning  in  languages  ancient  and  modern 
is  indicated  by  the  innumerable  citations  and  refer- 
ences. Lessing' s  knowledge  of  literature  was  much 
wider  than  of  art.  In  the  latter  direction  his  op- 
portunities for  accomplishment,  up  to  the  time  of 
the  composition  of  the  "Laokoon,"  had  been  slight ; 
it  follows  naturally  that  the  influence  of  the  book 


1  Herbert  Spencer. 


LESSING.  271 

upon  literature  has  been  more  marked  and  valuable 
than  in  the  other  sphere.  Is  it  right  to  say  that 
beauty  should  be  the  sole  object  of  the  formative 
artist  ?  Lessing  himself  is  forced  to  admit  that  even 
his  perfect  Greeks  sometimes  represented  the  re- 
pulsive,—  as  when  they  delineated  the  countenances 
of  the  Furies,  —  but  saves  himself  by  saying  that 
such  representations  are  not  art,  but  religion. 
"  Only  when  an  artist  is  free  to  follow  the  impulses 
of  his  own  mind  is  he  truly  an  artist."  What  shall 
be  said  of  the  historical  artist  who,  when  putting 
on  the  canvas,  or  in  marble,  scenes  and  personages 
of  the  past,  certainly  makes  beauty  a  secondary  ob- 
ject, if  he  regards  it  at  all  ?  What  shall  be  said  of 
genre  pictures,  and  those  which  have  a  humor- 
ous purpose,  in  which  there  is  the  same  postpone- 
ment of  this  first  essential  ?  If  they  are  to  be  ex- 
cluded from  works  of  art,  how  we  are  limiting  our 
understanding  of  the  term  !  We  should  abbreviate 
the  list  of  the  world's  masterpieces  by  taking  away 
some  of  what  have  been  held  the  finest  examples. 
Take  the  "  Laokoon  "  itself,  from  which  Lessing's 
discussion  proceeds, — what  can  be  our  understanding 
of  beauty  when,  in  the  tortured  Trojan  priest, 
we  call  the  furrowed  brow,  the  groaning  lips,  the 
writhing  limbs,  beautiful?  The  critics  of  Lessing 
object,  and  with  reason,  to  his  theory  in  this  point. 
Lessing  is  undoubtedly  much  nearer  the  truth  in 
his  consideration  of  the  function  of  poetry:  that 
since  articulated  tones  are  its  means,  and  its  object 
must  be  represented  in  time,  not  shapes,  but  ac- 
tions—  that  which  is  successive  —  are  its  proper 


272  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

concern.  The  development  of  the  thought  here  is 
the  most  interesting  and  satisfactory  part  of  the 
« '  Laokoon. ' '  The  keen  analysis  seems  to  have  pene- 
trated to  one  of  the  great  secrets  of  Homer's  power  ; 
examples  as  instructive  too  could  have  been  se- 
lected from  Shakespeare.  That  long  descriptions  of 
stationary  objects  can  hardly  be  otherwise  than  op- 
pressive is  made  clear  in  the  development  and  the 
citations.  But  even  here  we  should  deprive  our- 
selves of  some  of  the  precious  things  in  poetry  if 
we  should  cut  off  all  such  passages. 

I  turned, 
And  ere  a  star  can  wink,  beheld  her  there ; 

For  up  the  porch  there  grew  an  Eastern  rose, 
That,  flowering  high,  the  last  night's  gale  had  caught, 

And  blown  across  the  walk.    One  arm  aloft — 
Gowned  in  pure  white,  that  fitted  to  the  shape  — 

Holding  the  bush,  to  fix  it  back,  she  stood. 
A  single  stream  of  all  her  soft  brown  hair 

Poured  on  one  side ;  the  shadow  of  the  flowers 
Stole  all  the  golden  gloss,  and,  wavering 

Lovingly  lower,  trembled  on  her  waist,  — 
Ah,  happy  shade !  and  still  went  wavering  down  ; 

But  ere  it  touched  a  foot  that  might  have  danced 
The  greensward  into  greener  circles,  dipt, 

And  mixed  with  shadows  of  the  common  ground ! 
But  the  full  day  dwelt  on  her  brows,  and  sunned 

Her  violet  eyes,  and  all  her  Hebe-bloom, 
And  doubled  his  own  warmth  against  her  lips, 

And  on  the  bounteous  wave  of  such  a  breast 
As  never  pencil  drew.    Half  light,  half  shade, 

She  stood,  a  sight  to  make  an  old  man  young.1 

If  Lessing  had  belonged  to  our  generation,  can 
we  imagine  him  knitting  his  brow  severely,  and  pro- 


1  Tennyson :   The  Gardener's  Daughter. 


LESSING.  273 

nouncing  the  poet's  work  here  a  mere  perversion, 
that  he  had  stepped  beyond  his  sphere  to  undertake 
a  task  which  only  the  painter  or  sculptor  could  dis- 
charge ?  It  is  hard  to  believe ;  yet  with  some 
abatement  from  the  absoluteness  of  the  statement, 
Lessing's  theory  will  stand.  Only  the  most  con- 
summate skill  can  succeed  here.  It  is  a  usurpation 
of  the  functions  of  the  formative  artist  for  the  poet 
to  consider  the  stationary  object ;  usurpations,  how- 
ever, are  sometimes  justifiable  in  art  as  well  as 
politics,  and  in  the  domain  of  the  arts  great  genius 
may  authorize  them.  Lessing  is  right,  neverthe- 
less, in  saying  that  the  safer  and  better  way  —  the 
natural  way  —  is  to  reduce  the  description  of  the 
object  to  an  action ;  the  theory  commends  itself 
when  stated,  and  when  illustrated  by  the  splendid 
Homeric  examples,  — the  pomp  of  Agamemnon,  the 
bow  of  Pandarus,  the  shield  of  Achilles. — we  are 
convinced  at  once. 

The  « '  Laokoon  "  is  so  fragmentary  that  many  of 
its  thoughts  are  barely  hinted.  For  instance,  ways 
in  which  different  arts  may  be  united  in  their  opera- 
tion are  considered.  The  connection  of  poetry  and 
music  is  a  natural  one  ;  in  the  ordinary  opera,  says 
Lessing,  music  is  principal,  poetry  is  auxiliary;  a 
connection  can  be  conceived — most  fruitful  in  noble 
result  —  in  which  poetry  shall  be  the  principal, 
and  music  the  auxiliary.  In  the  few  words  in  which 
the  suggestion  is  thrown  out1  it  is  thought  that 
Lessing  anticipates  one  of  the  most  remarkable 


1  Sime. 

18 


274  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

and  characteristic  aesthetic  developments  of  the 
present  century, — the  movement  associated  with 
the  name  of  Richard  Wagner. 

Every  thoughtful  student  of  the  * '  Laokoon  ' '  will 
find  himself  again  and  again  questioning  its  positions. 
No  writer  considers  it  without  making  objections ; 
Lessing  himself  often  seems  abundantly  conscious 
that  he  lays  himself  open  to  attack.  It  is,  how- 
ever, everywhere  fertile  in  suggestions, — a  wonderful 
monument  of  learning,  acuteness,  and  lucid  state- 
ment. Its  influence  is  plain  upon  all  the  subsequent 
literature  of  Germany,  and  no  writer  felt  so  deeply 
his  obligation  to  Lessing  as  the  one  who  towers  as 
the  greatest,  —  Gothe.  At  the  time  of  the  publi- 
cation of  the  "Laokoon,"  1766,  Gothe  was  a 
youth  of  seventeen,  a  student  at  Leipsig.  In  his 
old  age,  recalling  the  impression  made  upon  him 
by  the  book,1  "One  must  be  a  youth,"  he  said, 
"  to  realize  the  effect  exercised  upon  us  by  Lessing' s 
"  Laokoon,"  which  transported  us  from  the  region  of 
miserable  observation  into  the  free  fields  of  thought. 
The  so  long  misunderstood  '  ut  pictura  poesis '  of 
Simonides  was  at  once  set  aside  ;  the  difference  be- 
tween art  and  poetry  made  clear ;  the  peaks  of  both 
appeared  separated,  however  near  each  other  might 
be  their  bases.  The  former  had  to  confine  itself 
within  the  limits  of  the  beautiful,  while  to  poetry — 
which  cannot  ignore  the  meaning  of  any  kind  of 
facts — it  was  given  to  pass  into  wider  fields.  The 
former  labors  for  external  sense,  which  is  satisfied 


1  Wahrheit  und  Dichtung,  page  2,  book  7,  Sime's  translation. 


LESSING.  275 

only  by  means  of  the  beautiful ;  the  latter  for  the 
imagination,  which  may  occupy  itself  even  with  the 
ugly.  As  by  a  flash  of  lightning,  all  the  conse- 
quences of  this  splendid  thought  were  revealed  to 
us ;  all  previous  criticism  was  thrown  away,  like  a 
worn-out  coat." 

In  many  points  in  the  *  *  Laokoon  ' '  the  truth  was 
not  reached,  but  every  line  shows  plainly  how  eager 
was  the  impulse  which  drove  the  writer  toward 
truth,  and  there  are  few  books  in  the  world  that 
have  stimulated  others  more  powerfully  in  the 
effort  to  gain  truth.  Such  a  result  is  precisely 
what  Lessing  would  have  considered  the  highest  suc- 
cess. "Not  the  truth,"  said  he,  —  in  what  is  per- 
haps the  most  famous  of  his  sayings,  —  "  of  which  a 
man  believes  himself  to  be  possessed,  but  the  sin- 
cere effort  he  has  made  to  gain  truth,  makes  the 
worth  of  a  man."  l 

Still  further  limitations  of  poetry  are  to  be  found 
in  other  writings  of  Lessing.  In  the  treatise  called 
"Pope  as  a  Metaphysician,"  Lessing  maintains 
that  philosophical  systems  are  no  material  for  a 
poet.  In  fact,  that  a  didactic  poem  is  a  mon- 
strosity. In  the  treatises  upon  the  "  Fables  of 
^Esop  "  again  the  same  idea  appears,  the  unsparing 
critic  showing  that,  as  it  is  not  the  function  of  poetry 
to  teach  philosophy,  so  it  is  no  part  of  its  function 
to  teach  morals.  Let  the  philosophy  and  the  morals 
be  taught  indeed,  but  by  the  sage  and  the  saint, 
while  the  poet  performs,  as  his  sole  function,  only 


"Wolfenbiittel  Fragments. 


276  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

the  task  of  giving  to  the  spirit  of  man  a  noble 
pleasure.  This  limitation  of  Lessing  was  in  oppo- 
sition to  the  schools  both  of  Leipsig  and  Zurich, 
but  it  became  universally  recognized,  and  has  left 
important  traces  on  subsequent  literary  history. 
With  Lessing' s  work  as  a  critic  of  literature  must 
be  put  what  is  known  as  the  "  Hamburg  Dra- 
maturgy." From  the  sketch  given  of  his  life  it  is 
apparent  that,  even  in  his  youth,  the  drama  had  for 
him  the  strongest  attraction.  He  regarded  it  from 
the  highest  point  of  view,  as  an  instrument  of  the 
utmost  power  in  the  promotion  of  human  virtue 
and  culture.  He  could  not  imagine  a  good  dra- 
matic author  who  should  not  possess  nobility  of 
character.  At  the  conclusion  of  his  Breslau  life,  a 
company  of  rich  merchants  in  Hamburg  had  asso- 
ciated themselves  together  to  establish  a  national 
theatre  of  a  high  character.  In  the  city  was  a 
superior  troop  of  actors,  among  whom  were  some 
who  realized  even  Lessing' s  lofty  ideal,  both  as 
artists  and  men.  The  post  of  dramatist  and  ad- 
viser in  the  new  enterprise  was  offered  to  Lessing. 
He  declined  to  write  plays,  but  consented  to  take 
part  in  the  undertaking  as  critic  and  counsellor. 
It  was  as  if,  in  an  American  city,  a  body  of  well- 
meaning  men  of  wealth  should  institute  a  theatrical 
enterprise  to  produce  plays  of  the  highest  class,  in 
the  finest  manner,  establishing  as  critic  and  director 
James  Russell  Lowell  or  George  William  Curtis. 
Lessing  began  his  work  with  enthusiasm.  There 
was  then  almost  no  German  drama ;  Gothe  was  a 
boy  of  seventeen ;  Schiller  only  seven  ;  Lessing' s 


LESSING.  277 

own  "  Minna  von  Barnhelm  "  had  just  appeared, — 
the  only  German  comedy.  The  greatness  of 
Shakespeare  was  just  becoming  known,  through  the 
efforts  of  Lessing  himself,  to  the  best  among  the 
Germans ;  but  there  were  no  proper  translations, 
and  by  the  nation  at  large  he  was  either  unknown 
or  regarded  as  the  uncouth  savage  described  by 
Voltaire.  Lessing  was  to  publish  a  bi-weekly 
sheet,  which  was  to  be  a  critical  register  of  all  the 
pieces  produced,  and  to  accompany  every  step  of 
poet  and  actor.  The  enterprise  soon  proved  unsuc- 
cessful, and  Lessing' s  connection  with  it  brought 
him  much  unhappiness,  but  Germany  gained  some- 
thing of  the  greatest  value.  In  his  criticisms  upon 
the  plays  he  broke  the  path  for  the  German  drama. 
Except  his  own  Minna,  there  was  little  to  be  repre- 
sented but  the  pieces  of  French  authors.  Lessing 
thought  it  necessary  to  destroy  the  prestige  of  the 
French  theatre,  because  the  founding  of  a  German 
drama  was  impossible  as  long  as  this  influence 
ruled  the  stage.  It  was  by  no  means  a  negative 
strife  which  he  waged.  He  developed  his  own 
views  upon  the  drama,  which  were  mainly  founded 
upon  the  "  Poetics  "  of  Aristotle,  and  the  thorough 
study  of  the  Greek  masterpieces,  as  well  as  upon 
Shakespeare.  He  spoke  severely  of  the  French, 
and  often  went  too  far,  but  does  justice  to  the  mas- 
terpieces. The  "Hamburg  Dramaturgy"  is  more 
fragmentary  and  imperfect  in  its  arrangement  than 
the  "  Laokoon."  The  hopes  with  which  it  was  un- 
dertaken ended  in  disappointment,  and  Lessing,  from 
the  first,  had  in  view  detached  considerations  rather 


278  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

than  a  connected  work.  But  of  the  service  which 
it  has  rendered  the  greatest  minds  testify.  The 
performance  of  one  play  affords  him  opportunity  to 
dwell  upon  the  terrible  and  pathetic  upon  the  stage. 
In  connection  with  another  he  discusses  historical 
tragedy.  In  another  he  lays  down  the  limitations 
of  comedy.  In  every  contribution  appears  his  mar- 
vellous power. 

There  is  not  space  to  consider  farther  Lessing's 
work  as  a  literary  critic.  Had  it  not  been  performed, 
the  subsequent  German  development  in  art  and  liter- 
ature could  not  have  taken  place  ;  Gothe  and  Schil- 
ler would  have  been  impossible.  But  we  have  not 
yet  seen  Lessing  at  his  greatest.  He  was  a  critic 
in  a  higher  than  the  ordinary  sense  —  a  judge,  and 
of  the  loftiest  kind.  What  he  did  for  art  and  liter- 
ature appears  almost  trifling  before  what  he  might 
have  done — what  he  longed  to  do — in  departments 
yet  nearer  human  interests.  He  accomplished 
much,  but  he  was  bound  in  on  every  side,  and  the 
mighty  striver  went  to  his  grave  thwarted  to  the  end 
by  his  untoward  circumstances.  As  his  manhood 
went  forward  he  appeared  by  turns  in  the  fields  ot 
politics,  philosophy,  and  religion,  bringing  every- 
where his  marvellous  touchstone. 

Of  his  ideas  of  government,  let  me  begin  my  con- 
sideration with  this  declaration  of  his,  which  per- 
haps will  seem  startling:  *' According  to  my  way 
of  thinking,  the  reputation  of  a  zealous  patriot  is  the 
very  last  that  I  would  covet ;  that  is,  of  patriotism 
which  teaches  me  to  forget  that  I  am  a  citizen  of  the 
world."  It  is  startling ;  but  if  we  develop  the  say- 


LESSING.  279 

ing,  it  will  be  found  full  of  grandeur.  Germany,  in 
his  day,  was  broken  up  into  divisions,  ruled  for  the 
most  part  by  despots  who  despised  the  people  they 
enslaved,  their  language,  their  manners,  their  lit- 
erature. Lessing  was  speaking  to  the  poet  Gleim, 
a  man  whose  fame  had  been  mainly  gained  by  cele- 
brating the  victories  of  Frederick  in  the  Seven 
Years'  War,  and  with  whom  patriotism  meant  a  lim- 
itation of  the  sympathies  within  the  boundaries  of 
what  was  then  Prussia.  Lessing' s  heart  demanded 
something  far  broader.  In  the  Germany  of  our 
time  —  wherein  the  divisions  are  abrogated,  and  a 
government  prevails  in  some  degree  respectful  to  its 
subjects,  wise,  and  humane — he  would  have  found 
more  to  love.  Yet  even  this,  we  may  be  sure  from 
his  declarations,  could  not  have  given  scope  to  his 
soul.  He  loved  to  call  himself  a  cosmopolite,  —  citi- 
zen of  the  world,  —  and  any  patriotism  which  inter- 
fered with  the  broadest  and  noblest  humanity,  love 
for  the  entire  race,  he  felt  to  be  vicious.  He  hated 
what  he  calls  "the  fatal  thing  denominated  war," 
and  sought  to  forget  the  fearful  misery  he  beheld 
about  him,  which  he  was  powerless  to  relieve,  by 
burying  himself  in  his  studies.  To  speak,  write,  or 
act  in  any  way  for  the  rights  of  the  people  seemed, 
in  Lessing's  day,  almost  madness.  The  time  was 
not  ripe,  or  receptive  even,  for  such  a  reformatory 
influence  as  he  might  under  other  circumstances 
have  exerted.  He  was  far  in  advance  of  his  age. 

The  grandeur  of  his  thoughts  in  this  direction  is 
perhaps  most  apparent  in  a  series  of  dialogues, 
whose  title  hardly  gives  a  clue  to  the  lofty  nature  of 


280  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

the  contents,  —  "Conversations  for  Freemasons." 
At  the  end  of  the  last  century  there  was  in  Europe 
a  great  love  for  secret  societies  ;  there  was  no  out- 
let for  the  energies  of  men  in  public  life,  and  they 
were  in  a  manner  forced  into  clandestine  action  ; 
Freemasonry,  in  particular,  was  popular.  In  his 
youth  Lessing  had  satirized  it ;  in  his  manhood, 
however,  he  became  a  Freemason.  He  considered 
Freemasonry,  as  it  was,  to  be  very  trivial,  but  con- 
ceived that  it  admitted  of  a  grand  development.  In 
the  "  Conversations  for  Freemasons"  the  high  idea 
is  expressed  that,  if  each  individual  knew  how  to 
rule  himself,  government  might  be  dispensed  with. 
Really,  it  is  an  evil, — in  an  imperfect  world  a  neces- 
sary one  ;  but  in  proportion  as  we  approach  the 
ideal  state  it  may  be  dropped.  "  Observe,"  says 
one  of  the  interlocutors,  "the  ants  and  bees,  —  what 
activity  and  what  order  !  Order  can  exist  without 
government,  if  each  individual  can  govern  himself. 
The  highest  point  humanity  can  reach  is  that  of  a 
society  of  developed  men  who  stand  in  no  need  of 
laws,  because  they  have  absolute  self-control." 
Lessing  doubts  whether  this  ideal  condition  can  ever 
become  real.  Certainly,  government  is  now  neces- 
sary, but  the  thinker  combats  those  who  overrate 
its  importance.  In  Greece  the  individual  was  sacri- 
ficed to  the  state  ;  no  welfare  of  the  state,  however, 
can  be  separate  from  that  of  the  individuals  who 
compose  it.  The  evils  connected  with  the  existence 
of  states  are  shown.  First,  the  world  is  divided 
into  nations,  and  the  patriotism  fostered  which  is  a 
mere  expansion  of  selfishness,  instead  of  a  spirit  of 


LESSING.  281 

love  to  all  mankind.  Second,  difference  of  states 
has  much  to  do  with  differences  of  religion.  Third, 
the  existence  of  states  implies  also  a  stratification  of 
society.  "  How  few  evils  there  are  in  the  world," 
he  exclaims,  "  which  have  not  their  ground  in  this 
difference  of  ranks  ! "  As  is  said,  however,  Lessing 
regarded  the  existence  of  states  as  a  necessity,  feeling 
that  the  amelioration  for  which  he  so  earnestly  hoped 
could  come  only  gradually.  "  We  must  accept  the 
world  as  it  is,  and  await  quietly  the  rising  of  the 
sun,  allowing  such  lights  as  there  are  to -burn  as 
long  as  they  will  and  can.  To  extinguish  the  lights, 
and  after  they  are  extinguished  to  perceive  that  the 
stumps  must  be  relighted,  or  other  lights  brought  in, 
is  folly."  He  expressly  disclaimed  all  effort  toward 
violence  or  revolution.  "What  costs  blood,"  he 
said,  "is  certainly  not  worth  blood."  No  single 
form  of  political  constitution  seemed  to  him  abso- 
lutely the  best.  In  some  stages  of  culture  an  en- 
lightened despot  is  most  fit ;  in  others,  a  republic ; 
in  others,  a  constitutional  monarchy.  But  the  up- 
holders of  all  should  be  ready  to  make  modifications, 
bringing  the  world  gradually  nearer  to  the  point 
where  every  form  of  government  can  be  dispensed 
with.  In  all  forms  of  government  arise  things 
highly  injurious  to  human  happiness.  It  is  the  nec- 
essary smoke  which  we  must  take  with  the  fire.  To 
render  the  evils  as  harmless  as  possible,  Lessing 
dreamed  of  a  brotherhood  of  exalted  minds.  The 
wisest  and  best  men  in  each  state  were  to  labor,  not 
for  the  impossible  absolute  abolition,  but  for  the 
possible  alleviation  of  oppressive  and  injurious  ele- 


282  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

ments.  Men  above  the  prejudices  of  nationality, 
and  who  know  where  patriotism  ceases  to  be  a  vir- 
tue, were  to  strive  to  do  away  with  provincial  preju- 
dices ;  men  not  in  thraldom  to  a  hereditary  relig- 
ion, who  do  not  believe  their  own  creed  to  be  the 
only  vehicle  of  truth,  were  to  mitigate  the  preju- 
dices of  religious  intolerance  ;  men  too  high  to  be 
dazzled  by  social  distinctions  were  to  aim  at  equal- 
izing the  differences  of  rank,  and  making  them  less 
oppressive.  The  energies  of  such  men  were  not  to 
be  dissipated  in  isolation,  but  Lessing  desired  a  fra- 
ternization of  wise  and  good  spirits  of  all  nations, 
for  the  accomplishment  of  these  beneficent  ends. 
In  his  thought,  Freemasonry  might  become  such  a 
bond.1 

These  are  the  ideas  of  an  elevated  spirit,  and  we 
may  hope  that  the  world  will  see,  some  day,  a  con- 
federation of  the  purest,  wisest  spirits  of  all  lands, 
held  together  according  to  the  scheme  of  the  high- 
hearted German,  —  to  raise  the  low,  mitigate  preju- 
dice, and  bind  the  nations  for  love  and  peace.  Les- 
sing's  contemporaries  sneered  at  it  as  the  scheme 
of  a  visionary,  or  detected  in  it  the  breath  of  sedi- 
tion. It  is  melancholy  to  read  that  the  promulga- 
tion of  his  great  thought  only  brought  upon  him 
persecution,  and  that  he  was  harshly  forbidden 
to  complete  the  work  in  which  the  idea  was  con- 
tained. 

Lessing' s  political  philosophy  cannot  be  farther 
discussed,  nor  can  I  do  more  than  glance  at  his  work 

1  Kurz.. 


LESSING.  «     283 

as  a  speculative  thinker.  In  this  direction,  what  he 
has  left  is  more  broken  and  unsatisfactory  than  in 
any  other.  His  influence  was  important  in  restoring 
to  a  place  of  due  honor  the  name  of  Spinoza,  whom 
he  held  in  great  reverence.  The  following  words, 
which  I  find  applied  to  him,  are  perhaps  not  exces- 
sive :  "The  harbinger  of  modern  philosophy,  and 
in  this  province  an  awakener  and  emancipator  of 
the  Germans." 

But  even  yet  we  have  not  touched  upon  Lessing's 
grandest  utterances,  — those  upon  spiritual  progress 
and  religious  tolerance.  There  are  many  in  the 
Christian  world  to-day,  as  there  were  in  Lessing's 
time,  who  will  think  he  went  quite  too  far  in  his 
bold  thinking.  There  are  others  who  find  in  these 
writings  declarations  worthy  of  a  prophet.  Whether 
we  like  or  dislike,  the  sincerity,  the  bravery,  the  be- 
nevolence which  he  everywhere  showed  may  cer- 
tainly be  admired  by  all.  Luther  believed  in  the 
presence  of  the  literal  body  and  blood  of  Christ 
in  the  Lord's  Supper.  He  would  have  shown  no 
horror  at  the  burning  of  a  wTitch  ;  indeed,  he  found 
fault  with  magistrates  for  persecuting  them  with  too 
little  energy.  Yet  we  can  admire  him.  Let  those 
who  reject  the  opinions  of  Lessing  treat  him  with 
similar  candor, — while  regretting  his  mistakes,  do 
honor  to  his  manhood.  In  the  department  of  theo- 
logical controversy  there  has  been  seldom  a  more 
violent  tempest  than  that  excited  by  the  publica- 
tion of  the  "  Wolfenbtittel  Fragments."  A  manu- 
script volume,  written  by  a  free-thinking  scholar, 
Reimarus,  had  fallen  into  Lessing's  hands  while  at 


284  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

Hamburg.  During  his  life  at  Wolfenbiittel  he  pub- 
lished extracts  from  this  manuscript,  accompanied 
by  annotations.  He  carefully  abstained  from  de- 
fending the  positions  of  Reimarus,  which  were  ex- 
tremely radical.  Many  of  the  ideas  Lessing  ex- 
pressly states  that  he  does  not  accept,  and  in  his 
notes  makes  an  attempt  to  soften  their  baldness. 
He  claims  that  his  desire  in  giving  to  the  world  the 
extracts  is  to  stimulate  enquiry,  and  he  contends  for 
absolute  freedom  of  discussion.  The  excitement 
which  the  publication  caused  in  the  religious  world 
was  immense.  That  Lessing  had  dared  to  make 
known  such  infidelity  was  condemned,  and  he  was 
accused  of  drawing  upon  the  stores  under  his  guar- 
dianship only  to  disseminate  poison.  In  spite  of  his 
disclaimers,  it  was  plain  that  the  bold  ideas  of 
Reimarus  found  some  sympathy  in  the  mind  of  Les- 
sing, and  denunciations  became  violent.  And  now 
began  the  most  memorable  controversy  in  which 
Lessing  was  ever  engaged.  The  champion  of  the 
orthodox  party,  in  the  storm  which  the  ' '  Wolfen- 
btittel  Fragments,"  had  caused,  was  Gotze,  a  pastor 
of  Hamburg,  a  man  of  scholarship  and  power,  with 
whom  Lessing  had  been  well  acquainted,  but  who 
now  showed  unreasonable  violence.  On  Lessing' s 
side  the  controversy  was  undertaken  when  he  was 
utterly  crushed  by  the  death  of  his  wife.  He 
sought  relief  in  the  strife  from  the  melancholy  into 
which  he  was  plunged.  It  cannot  perhaps  be  said 
that  his  vehemence  went  too  far,  but  never  since  the 
time  of  Luther  had  such  a  fierce  polemic  energy 
been  displayed;  the  papers  of  Lessing  can  be 


LESSING.  285 

matched  only  among  the  finest  masterpieces  of  de- 
nunciatory eloquence. 

Lessing's  controversy  with  Gotze  forced  him 
into  a  plainness  of  speech  upon  religious  subjects 
from  which  he  would  have  shrunk  in  his  earlier 
years.  Among  his  latest  writings  appeared  tne 
"Education  of  the  Human  Race,"  whose  tone  was 
of  the  boldest.  Lessing  declares  in  this  that  the 
Old  Testament  contains  a  revelation  from  God,  but, 
at  the  same  time,  that  it  is  not  necessary  to  think 
that  revelations  must  set  forth  absolute  truth.  We 
must  rather  consider  them  as  adapted  to  the  par- 
ticular stages  of  progress  at  which  they  are  given. 
Through  revelation  man  obtains  nothing  which  he 
could  not  gain  from  his  own  reason.  In  giving  a 
revelation  to  a  chosen  people,  God  did  not  tell  them 
all.  The  Old  Testament  is  only  suited  for  rude 
minds  ;  a  better  teacher  must  come  to  supplement 
the  instruction  ;  and  so,  in  the  fulness  of  time,  ap- 
peared Christ.  Like  other  faiths,  Christianity, 
although  for  a  certain  stage  all-sufficient,  is  destined 
to  be  superseded,  though  Lessing  here  counsels  the 
extremest  caution.  "  Refrain,  thou  who  dost  stamp 
and  rage  at  the  last  page  of  this  elementary  book, 
from  letting  thy  weaker  fellow-pupils  perceive  what 
thou  dost  suspect,  or  hast  begun  to  see.  Until  they 
have  overtaken  thee,  — these  weaker  fellow-pupils,  — 
turn  rather  once  more  to  this  elementary  book, 
and  examine  whether  that  which  thou  deemest  only 
turns  of  method,  makeshifts  of  dialectic,  is  not 
something  better.1 "  Lessing  was  strongly  opposed 

1  Sime's  Translation. 


286  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

to  those  who,  in  his  time,  represented  Christianity 
as  the  invention  of  priests,  and  harmful.  Not  only 
Christianity,  but  all  positive  religions,  he  taught,  are, 
or  have  been,  beneficial  in  their  time.  "  Why  shall 
we  not  rather  recognize  in'  positive  religions  the  di- 
rection in  which  the  human  understanding  has  alone 
been  able  to  develop  itself  in  various  places  than 
either  smile  or  scowl  at  any  of  them."  l 

The  reader  is  so  accustomed  to  the  mention  of  the 
incompleteness  of  Lessing's  work,  it  almost  goes 
without  saying  that  the  "  Education  of  the  Human 
Race"  is  but  a  fragment.  Thrown  off,  as  it  was, 
during  the  decay  of  his  powers,  close  upon  the  end 
of  his  life,  no  work  of  his  is  perhaps  more  imper- 
fect,—  scarcely  more  than  a  jotting  down  of  hints 
upon  the  greatest  of  topics.  The  number  is  not 
small,  however,  of  those  who  attach  a  greater  value 
to  it  than  to  anything  the  thinker  has  left.  Though 
much  that  it  contains  will  be  repugnant  to  multi- 
tudes, there  are  now  and  then  glimpses  of  great 
thoughts  which  must  powerfully  impress  all.  For 
instance,  what  can  be  finer  than  Lessing's  law  of 
progress?  Men  obey  the  moral  law,  he  says,  first, 
to  avoid  unpleasant  consequences  in  this  world ; 
second,  in  the  world  to  come ;  and,  third,  they 
choose  virtue  for  its  own  sake.  In  the  first  and 
second  instances,  selfishness  is  at  the  root  of  action  ; 
in  the  first  instance,  at  its  coarsest.  In  the  third, 
men  are  drawn  by  pure  love,  and  we  reach  the  time 
of  the  "  new  eternal  gospel." 

The  masterpiece  of  Lessing  is  the  peerless  play 


Sime's  Translation. 


LESSING.  287 

of  "Nathan  the  Wise."  It  was  written  late  in 
life,  when  his  philosophy  had  ripened,  and  when  his 
spirit,  sorely  tried  in  every  way,  had  gained  from 
the  sad  experience  only  sweeter  humanity.  Judged 
by  rules  of  art,  it  is  easy  to  find  fault  with  it. 
The  story  is  involved,  the  speeches  of  the  charac- 
ters often  too  long,  the  action  not  always  natural ; 
it  is  what  Lessiug  himself  condemned,  —  a  didactic 
poem.  The  moral  elevation  of  the  piece,  how- 
ever, is  so  noble,  one  is  impatient  at  any  attempt  to 
measure  it  by  such  a  trivial  standard.  Let  it  violate 
rules  of  art  as  it  may,  it  is  thrilled  from  first  to  last 
by  a  glowing,  God-sent  fire*  such  as  has  appeared 
rarely  in  the  literature  of  the  world.  It  teaches  love 
to  God  and  man,  tolerance,  the  beauty  of  peace. 
Nathan,  a  Jew,  who  has  suffered  at  the  hands  of  the 
crusaders  the  extremest  affliction,  the  loss  of  his 
wife  and  seven  children,  is  not  embittered  by  the 
experience.  He  adopts  a  Christian  child,  Recha, 
and  christens  her  as  his  own.  She  grows  to  woman- 
hood, and  at  length,  during  Nathan's  absence, 
nearly  loses  her  life  in  the  burning  of  the  house.  She 
is  saved  from  the  danger  by  a  young  Templar.  The 
consequence  of  the  rescue  is  mutual  love  and  a  be- 
trothal. Meantime  the  Sultan  Saladin,  pressed  for 
money,  sends  for  Nathan.  The  Mahometan,  not 
less  than  the  Jew,  is  noble.  Nathan  tells  the  sul- 
tan the  famous  story  of  the  rings,  and  the  two  are 
drawn  together  in  friendship.  At  length  it  appears 
that  the  Templar  and  Recha  are  really  brother  and 
sister,  —  children  of  a  crusader  who  has  been  a 
friend  of  Nathan.  A  still  stranger  revelation  comes 


288  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

to  pass.  When  once  the  young  Templar  had  fallen 
into  the  power  of  Saladin,  the  sultan  spared  his  life 
because  he  resembled  a  brother,  lost  many  years 
before.  It  comes  to  light  that  the  father  of  the 
Templar  and  Recha  is  no  other  than  the  lost  brother 
of  the  sultan,  who,  forsaking  his  faith,  became  a 
Christian,  married  a  Christian  wife,  and  at  length 
lost  his  life  fighting  for  the  cross.  It  is  perhaps  the 
greatest  artistic  blemish  of  the  plot  that  the  lovers 
.prove  at  last  to  be  in  this  way  brother  and  sister, 
into  which  relation  they  subside  with  an  equanimity 
quite  exasperating  to  the  critics.  Recha  clings  with 
true  filial  love  to  Nathan ;  Saladin  extends  warm 
affection  to  the  children  of  his  brother.  The  three 
leading  figures,  therefore,  —  Nathan,  Saladin,  and 
the  Templar,  —  stand  bound  together  in  a  close  in- 
timacy. They  are  all  examples  of  nobleness,  though 
individualized.  In  Nathan,  severe  chastening  has 
brought  to  pass  the  finest  gentleness  and  love; 
Saladin  is  the  perfect  type  of  chivalry,  though  im- 
petuous and  over-lavish  through  the  possession  of 
great  power  ;  the  Templar  is  full  of  the  vehemence 
of  youth.  So  they  stand,  side  by  side,  impressive 
patterns  of  manhood,  yet  representatives  of  creeds 
most  deeply  hostile.  Thus,  in  concrete  presentment, 
Lessing  teaches  impressively  what  he  had  often 
elsewhere  inculcated  in  a  less  vivid  way,  one  of  the 
grandest  of  lessons,  —  that  nobleness  is  bound  to  no 
confession  of  faith ;  that  it  is  false  to  declare  this 
or  that  religion  the  one  alone  worthy,  stigmatizing 
the  confessors  of  other  faiths  as  accursed  of  God. 
In  days  of  yore,  says  the  famous  story  of  the 


LESSING.  289 

ring,  the  parable  in  which  the  lesson  of  the  play  is 
contained,  there  lived  an  Oriental  who  possessed 
a  priceless  ring,  which  had  power  to  make  its  owner 
beloved  by  God  and  by  mankind.  He  bequeathed  it 
to  his  best-loved  son,  and  so  arranged  that  it  should 
go  down  evermore,  falling  in  each  generation  to  the 
favorite.  At  length  in  the  transmission  it  fell  to 
a  father  who  had  three  sons,  all  equally  dear  to  his 
heart.  To  each  son  in  turn  he  promises  the  ring, 
as  each,  for  the  time  being,  seems  dearest  to  him. 
In  perplexity,  at  last  he  has  two  other  rings  made, 
such  counterparts  of  the  true  one  that  when  they 
are  placed  side  by  side  he  himself  cannot  distin- 
guish it.  To  each  son  then  he  gives  a  ring,  and 
dies.  Disputes  break  out  between  the  children,  each 
claiming  to  be  the  possessor  of  the  true  ring.  The 
wise  judge  to  whom  the  question  is  submitted  finds 
it  impossible  to  decide.  "  Let  each  one  of  you," 
he  says,  "  deem  his  own  true,  and  make  it  true  by 
trying  who  can  display  most  gentleness,  forbearance, 
charity,  united  to  heartfelt  resignation  to  God's 
will.  If,  after  a  thousand  thousand  years,  the 
virtues  of  the  ring  continue  to  show  themselves  in 
your  children's  children,  perhaps  one  wiser  than  I 
will  sit  on  this  judgment-seat,  who  can  decide." 
No  ring,  Lessing  would  say,  gives  one  the  power  to 
dominate  over  the  rest;  so  of  religions,  —  no  one  is 
the  exclusive  religion  of  the  world.  It  was  his 
thought,  as  has  been  seen,  that  every  historic  re- 
ligion is  in  some  sense  divine,  —  a  necessary  evolu- 
tion from  the  conditions  under  which  it  originates. 
Let  each,  then,  allow  his  neighbors  to  live  in  their 


290  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

own  way,  convinced  that  theirs  is  as  good  for  them 
as  his  for  him.  What  a  man  believes  is  a  matter  of 
utter  indifference  if  his  life  is  not  good.  "If  it  is 
said,"  wrote  Lessing,  after  completing  it,  "that 
this  piece  teaches  that  among  all  sorts  of  people 
there  have  long  been  men  who  have  disregarded  all 
revealed  religions,  and  have  yet  been  good  men ; 
if  it  is  added  that  my  intention  has  evidently  been 
to  represent  such  men  in  a  less  repulsive  light  than 
that  in  which  the  Christian  mob  has  usually  looked 
upon  them,  I  should  not  have  much  to  urge  against 
that  view." 

There  are  many  in  the  world  to-day  —  as  there 
were  in  Lessing' s  own  time  —  to  whom  he  will 
seem  to  have  gone  far  astray.  Few  indeed  are 
those  whom  he  will  carry  with  him  in  all  his  teach- 
ing. He  himself  in  fact  seems  often  conscious  of 
inconsistency,  and  prepared  to  modify  his  views  ; 
this  in  all  the  departments  which  he  touched, — 
literature,  art,  politics,  philosophy,  religion.  A 
searcher  after  truth,  not  a  teacher  of  truth,  is  the 
character  he  claimed  for  himself ;  and  in  all  that  he 
wrote  his  effort  was,  not  to  impress  upon  men  cer- 
tain views,  but  to  incite  them  to  seek  for  truth 
themselves.  "  Not  the  truth,"  he  says  in  the  pas- 
sage which  has  been  already  partly  quoted,  "  not 
the  truth  in  whose  possession  a  man  is,  or  believes 
himself  to  be,  but  the  earnest  efforts  which  he  has 
made  to  attain  truth,  make  the  worth  of  the  man. 
For  it  is  not  through  the  possession,  but  through 
the  search  for  truth,  that  his  powers  are  strength- 
ened, in  which  alone  his  ever-growing  perfection 


LESSIXG.  291 

exists.  Possession  makes  him  calm,  indolent, 
proud.  If  God  held  all  truth  in  His  right  hand, 
and  in  His  left  the  ever-living  desire  for  truth  ;  if  He 
said  to  me,  Choose,  I  should,  even  though  with  the 
condition  that  I  should  remain  forever  in  error, 
humbly  incline  towards  His  left,  and  say,  Father, 
give  ;  pure  truth  is  for  Thee  alone."  l 

"  His  form  was  compact  and  vigorous,  of  more 
than  ordinary  size,  and  had  a  symmetry  developed 
by  physical  exercise  of  every  kind  to  the  freedom 
of  noble,  natural  deportment.  The  head  was  ele- 
gantly poised  upon  a  powerful  neck ;  the  face  was 
well-defined,  of  a  naturally  healthy  complexion, 
illumined  by  the  intellectual  brilliancy  of  large, 
dark-blue  eyes,  whose  glance,  not  too  piercing, 
was  yet  resolute  and  ingenuous.  The  thick,  long 
hair,  of  a  beautiful  light-brown,  even  in  his  latest 
years  was  sprinkled  with  only  a  few  silver  threads. 
He  was  always  careful  in  deportment,  nothing  in 
his  outward  mien  betra}Ting  the  sedentary  scholar. 
His  clothing  was  always  neat,  his  manners  noble, 
his  voice  rich,  vibrating  between  baritone  and 
tenor."  2 

His  life  is  a  profoundly  sad  one ;  a  constant 
struggle  with  poverty  and  misappreciation ;  a  suc- 
cession of  disappointments ;  suspected  in  his  fa- 
ther's house,  suspected  and  persecuted  throughout 
his  career,  the  happiness  finally  granted  him  in  his 
union  with  the  woman  he  loved  closing  within  one 

1  The  Wolfenbuttel  Fragments,  quoted  in  Zimmern's  Life  of  Lea- 
sing. 

2  Stahr's  Life  of  Lessing. 


292  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

short  year  in  the  bitterest  sorrow.  The  end  came  in 
1781,  when  he  was  but  fifty-two.  "  On  the  fifteenth 
of  February  he  rose  in  the  afternoon,  and  caused 
himself  to  be  dressed.  It  seemed  as  though  he 
wished,  like  the  Roman  emperor,  to  die  standing. 
Towards  evening,  when  it  was  announced  that 
friends  were  in  the  ante-room,  desiring  to  see  him, 
the  door  opened  and  Lessiug  entered,  a  most  sad 
and  heart-rending  object  to  look  upon  !  The  noble 
countenance,  damp  with  the  dews  of  death,  shone 
as  in  a  celestial  transfiguration.  Silent,  and  with 
an  unspeakably  affectionate  look,  he  pressed  the 
hand  of  his  weeping  daughter,  and  uncovering  his 
head,  bowed  kindly  to  the  others  present.  But  the 
feet  refused  their  office  ;  he  is  borne  to  a  couch,  and 
immediately  afterwards,  at  nine  o'clock  in  the  even- 
ing, an  apoplectic  fit  terminated  his  life." l 

It  is  easy  to  make  the  pilgrimage  to  the  spots 
made  sacred  by  the  memory  of  Lessing.  His  life 
passed,  almost  without  break,  in  a  little  group  of 
towns  which  lie  within  a  short  ride  of  each  other. 
Wittenberg  has  a  greater  association  than  with  his 
name  even ;  yet  he  was  worthy  to  walk  there,  even 
in  the  footsteps  of  Luther,  in  his  vigorous  young 
manhood,  when  he  was  enthusiastic  to  rescue  from 
obloquy  the  fame  of  great  men  of  the  past,  un- 
worthily condemned.2  It  lends  a  new  interest  to 
Leipsig  that  he  lived  there  in  his  unconstrained, 
Bohemian  days.  Brunswick,  which  grudgingly  of- 


1  Stahr. 

*  Die  Kettungen. 


LESSING.  298 

fered  him  an  asylum,  does  him  honor  in  a  bronze 
statue  which  is  the  finest  ornament  of  the  city  ; 
and  Wolfenbiittel,  which  almost  smothered  him 
with  its  dreariness,  guards  carefully  every  trace  of 
his  sojourn.  But  it  was  in  Berlin,  I  remember,  that 
the  pathos  of  his  baffled  career  came  home  to  me 
most  powerfully.  The  great  capital  of  United  Ger- 
many resembles  very  little  the  inconsiderable  town 
of  the  last  century  from  which  it  has  grown,  and 
which  Lessing  knew.  Here  he  suffered  some  of 
his  bitterest  disappointments ;  here  he  enjoyed 
some  of  his  most  precious  friendships ;  here  did 
some  of  his  manliest  work.  Changed  though  the 
city  is,  its  suggestions  in  some  ways  are  what  they 
were  in  Lessing' s  time,  and  as  one  goes  through  its 
streets  he  can  make  real  to  himself  what  must 
have  been  the  mood  of  the  humane  cosmopolite. 
In  his  time,  the  days  of  Frederick,  there  was 
something  martial  at  every  turn.  It  was  the  city 
of  men  whose  main  business  had  come  to  be  war- 
fare, in  whose  breasts  there  was  no  broader  feeling 
than  a  love  for  Prussia.  It  is  scarcely  different  now. 
It  was  already  evening  of  one  of  the  long  days 
at  the  end  of  May  when  I  saw,  for  the  first  time, 
the  great  sand  plains  which  one  must  cross  between 
Dresden  and  Berlin.  Nature  has  done  little  to 
make  the  region  attractive,  but  the  spirit  of  strife 
has  lent  it  tragic  associations.  There  is  scarcely  an 
acre  that  has  not  drunk  blood  in  some  historic  con- 
test, or  at  least  been  jarred  by  cannon-thunder 
from  some  great  battle-field  close  by.  Towards 
midnight  the  glare  of  the  lights  of  the  capital 


294  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

began  to  whiten  the  heavens  to  the  northward. 
Going  out  early  the  next  morning,  I  stood  presently 
in  a  broad  avenue.  In  the  centre  ran  a  wide  prom- 
enade, lined  by  rows  of  tall,  full-foliaged  trees  ;  on 
each  side  a  crowded  road- way,  bordered  by  stately 
buildings.  Close  by  towered  up,  till  the  head  of 
the  rider  was  on  a  level  with  the  eaves  of  the 
houses,  a  colossal  equestrian  figure  in  bronze,  in 
cocked  hat,  booted  and  spurred ;  the  skin  tense 
over  the  muscles  of  the  bridle-hand,  as  it  reined  in 
the  charger ;  the  wrinkles  plain,  made  by  care,  in 
the  writer's  face  ;  life-like,  as  if  the  bronze  warrior 
might  dismount  any  moment,  if  he  chose.  In  the 
distance,  down  the  long  perspective  of  trees,  was 
a  lofty  gate,  supported  by  Corinthian  columns, 
on  the  top  a  figure  of  Victory  in  a  chariot  drawn 
by  horses.  Close  at  hand  again,  under  the  porch 
of  a  square,  strong  structure,  stood  two  straight 
sentinels.  A  handsome  officer  came  down  the 
pavement,  his  sword  rattling  on  the  stones.  In- 
stantly the  two  sentinels  stepped  back  in  concert, 
as  if  the  same  clock-work  regulated  their  move- 
ments, brought  their  shining  pieces  with  perfect 
precision  to  the  "  present,"  stood  for  an  instant  as 
if  hewn  from  stone,  the  spiked  helmets  above  the 
blonde  faces  inclining  backward  at  exactly  the  same 
angle,  then  precisely  together  fell  into  the  old  posi- 
tion. The  street  was  "Unter  den  Linden;"  the 
huge  statue  was  the  memorial  of  Frederick  the 
Great;  the  gate  down  the  long  vista  was  the 
Brandenburger  Thor,  surmounted  by  the  charioted 
Victory  which  Napoleon  carried  to  Paris  after  Jena, 


LESSING.  295 

and  which  came  back  after  Waterloo.  The  solid 
building  was  the  palace  of  the  kaiser,  and  when  the 
clock-work  sentinels  went  through  their  salute  with 
such  straight  precision,  the  first  sight  was  gained 
of  that  famous  Prussian  discipline  against  which, 
before  that  summer  was  finished,1  supple  France 
was  to  crush  its  teeth  all  to  fragments,  like  a  viper 
incautiously  biting  at  a  file. 

The  whole  aspect  of  Berlin  is  military.  Near  by 
lies  a  great  tract  of  country,  fenceless  and  houseless, 
reserved  exclusively  for  reviews ;  in  every  quarter 
tower  the  garrisons  for  the  troops.  The  statues  and 
public  memorials  are  mostly  in  honor  of  great  sol- 
diers and  victories.  In  one  place  stands  old  Bliicher, 
muffled  in  his  cloak,  and  glaring  over  his  shoulder 
as  if  he  saw  a  French  column  marching  round  the 
corner  by  the  opera-house  close  by.  At  his  right 
stands  Yorck,  at  his  left  Gneisenau,  and  across  the 
street  are  Scharnhorst  and  Billow.  The  great  elec- 
tor towers  in  another  place,  on  horseback ;  else- 
where are  the  old  Dessauer,  who  helped  Marlboro 
at  Malplaquet,  and  Schwerin  in  queue  and  knee- 
breeches,  the  black-eagle  banner  in  his  hand,  as  he 
fell  charging — a  gray-beard  of  eighty — at  Kollin  ; 
these  and  many  more.  There  are  tall  columns  too 
to  commemorate  a  victory  here,  or  the  crushing  out 
of  revolutionary  spirit  somewhere  else ;  far  more 
rarely  a  statue  to  a  poet  or  statesman,  or  a  civilian 
in  any  department.  On  "Unter  den  Linden"  the 
sentinels  are  always  before  the  king's  palace,  the 

1  1870. 


296  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

palace  of  the  crown  prince,  at  the  arsenal,  at  the 
main  guard-house,  —  almost  all  the  way  from  the  old 
castle  on  the  Spree,  at  one  end,  to  the  Brandenburger 
Thor  at  the  other.  Groups  of  grenadiers  are  in 
every  street  and  garden.  Each  cafe  and  promenade 
has  its  elegant  officers.  Batteries  of  artillery  roll 
by  at  any  time,  obedient  to  their  bugles  ;  squadrons 
of  Uhlans  ride  up  to  salute  the  kaiser.  Each  day 
at  noon  swells  through  the  roar  of  the  streets  mar- 
tial music,  first  a  sound  of  trumpets,  then  a  deafen- 
ing roll  from  a  score  of  brazen  drums.  A  heavy 
detachment  of  infantry  wheels  out  from  some 
barracks  —  ranks  of  strong,  brown-haired  men, 
stretching  from  sidewalk  to  sidewalk,  perfectly  ap- 
pointed in  every  thread  and  accoutrement,  dropping 
at  intervals,  section  after  section,  to  do  the  un- 
broken guard  duty  at  the  various  posts.  Meantime 
to  the  main  guard-house  gather  the  officers  on  duty 
at  Berlin,  in  flashing  uniform,  the  acme  of  military 
splendor. 

Such  constant  suggestions  of  war  are  painful, — 
such  apparatus  for  blood-shedding,  such  application 
of  energy  to  the  work  of  destruction,  such  blunting 
of  the  finer  nature.  The  city  has  grown,  but  the 
spirit  of  the  place  cannot  be  far  different  from  what 
it  was  in  the  days  of  Leuthen  and  Kiinersdorf.  The 
Prussian  still  prefers  war-songs  to  the  holy  melodies 
of  love.  The  shout  of  Thor,  rushing  on  to  crush 
his  enemies  with  his  hammer,  charms  him  more  than 
any  gentler  faith,  with  its  utterance  of  peace.  There 
is  more  pomp  and  evidence  of  power ;  the  narrow 
patriotism  which  had  no  love  beyond  Prussia  has 


LESSINO.  297 

broadened  so  that  it  includes  all  Germany.  But  the 
temper  is  no  milder,  nor  has  the  patriotism  become 
the  wide-reaching  sentiment  embracing  all  mankind. 
Here,  then,  walked  the  man  of  lofty  spirit  who 
hated  the  "fatal  thing  called  war,"  and  said  that 
"what  cost  blood  was  certainly  not  worth  blood." 
For  such  words  the  ears  of  those  days  had  no  hos- 
pitality ;  he  who  uttered  them  had  scarcely  a  place 
to  lay  his  head.  But  the  man  was  too  great  to  be 
forgotten  entirely.  The  recognition  which  has  been 
accorded  him  here  among  the  soldiers  is  thoroughly 
characteristic.  Frederick  sits  mounted  among  the 
tree-tops  of  "  Unter  den  Linden,"  and  about  the 
pedestal  are  crowded  the  life-size  figures  of  the  men 
of  his  age  whom  Prussia  holds  most  worthy  of  re- 
membrance. At  the  four  corners  ride  the  duke  of 
Brunswick  and  cunning  Prince  Heinrich,  old  Ziethen 
the  Hussar,  and  Se}rdlitz,  who  threw  Soubise  into 
rout  at  Rossbach.  Between  are  a  score  or  more  of 
soldiers  of  lesser  note,  —  the  Scotchman  Keith,  who 
fell  in  the  early  morning  twilight  at  Hochkirch,  and, 
more  interesting  than  all,  Tauentzien,  Lessing's 
friend,  —  only  soldiers,  spurred  and  girt  with  sa- 
bres, except  on  the  very  back  of  the  pedestal,  and 
there  just  at  the  tail  of  the  king's  horse,  in  the 
most  undistinguished  place,  stand  Kant,  peer  of 
Plato  and  Bacon,  and  at  his  side  the  noble  presence 
of  Lessing.  Just  standing-room  for  them  among 
the  horses  and  uniforms,  at  the  tail  of  Frederick's 
steed  !  The  statue  of  Lessing  rises  serene,  tall,  un- 
bending, with  gaze  fixed  as  if  upon  some  far-off 
pleasant  prospect,  —  as  if  he  saw  the  day  when,  in 


298  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

the  long  education  of  the  human  race,  his  time 
should  come.  The  sculptor  builded  perhaps  wiser 
than  he  knew,  —  the  back  of  the  king  turned  so 
squarely  upon  the  figure  of  the  great  writer,  the 
hoofs  of  the  war-horse  within  easy  striking  distance. 
So  was  he  regarded  by  the  great  and  powerful  of  the 
land  of  which  he  was  the  most  illustrious  ornament. 

He  was  the  prophet  of  change.  Like  prophets  in 
general,  there  were  feet  ready  to  trample  on  him, 
and  he  was  only  saved  by  his  extraordinary  strength. 
"The  influence  of  his  life,"  said  Gothe,  "cannot 
perish  through  long  ages."  In  literature,  in  art,  in 
politics  and  philosophy,  we  see  in  Lessing  the  dawn 
of  a  new  day.  And  in  religion  ?  Did  he  go  utterly 
astray?  "  Thou,  Luther,"  he  once  wrote,  "great 
man,  ill  understood,  thou  hast  freed  us  from  the 
yoke  of  tradition ;  who  will  free  us  from  the  more 
intolerable  yoke  of  the  letter  ?  "  l  In  answer  to  the 
enquiry,  a  man  of  genius  exclaims,  "  I  say  Lessing 
continued  Luther's  work.  When  Luther  had  freed 
us  from  tradition ,  the  letter  ruled  as  tyrannically  as 
tradition  had  done.  In  freeing  men  from  this  ty- 
rannical letter,  Lessing  has  done  most.  His  voice 
is  loudest  in  the  battle.  Here  he  swings  his  sword 
most  joyfully,  and  it  lightens  and  slays."2  The 
world  may  yet  set  the  two  mighty  strivers  side  by 
side. 

Into  the  gems  of  the  priestly  breast-plate,  in 
that  ancient  Hebrew  tale,  the  breast-plate  worn  by 


1  Anti-GStze  in  Zimmern's  Life. 

*  Heinrich  Heine :  Uber  Deutschland. 


LESSING.  299 

Aaron  and  his  sons,  it  was  believed  that  God  Him- 
self from  time  to  time  descended,  filling  them  with 
supernal  splendor,  thus  making  known  his  purposes 
and  helping  Israel  to  decision.  So,  in  the  Bible's 
words,  "  They  bore  judgment  on  their  hearts  before 
the  Lord  continually."  It  seems  to  me  that  this 
leader  of  men  was  not  without  some  such  inspira- 
tion —  the  Urim  and  Thummim  —  that  he  received  in 
his  soul  more  abundant  measure  of  ' '  the  light  that 
lighteth  every  man  that  cometh  into  the  world," 
and  so,  in  a  noble  sense,  "  bore  judgment  I  " 


CHAPTER  XI. 

KLOPSTOCK,    WIELAND,  AND  HERDER. 

Turning  from  the  great  figure  of  Lessing,  who 
stands  like  Moses  among  his  people,  guiding  them 
to  things  beautiful,  but  himself  dying  before  the 
day  of  glory  is  reached,  we  have  now  to  consider 
three  men  of  importance,  —  Klopstock,  Wieland, 
and  Herder,  —  one  of  whom,  Herder,  is  scarcely 
less  great  than  he  who  so  nobly  "  bore  judgment," 
although  his  greatness  was  of  a  different  kind.  All 
were  young  men  when  Lessing' s  influence  began  to 
become  paramount,  coming  forward  into  eminence 
with  him,  or  while  he  sat  supreme ;  when  he  died, 
holding  for  a  moment  the  immoital  light,  until  it 
was  transferred  at  length  to  the  true  torch-bearers 
of  the  gods,  the  transcendent  men  from  whom  the 
literature  of  Germany  was  to  receive  its  noblest 
illumination. 

As  has  been  seen,  the  two  rival  schools  of  criti- 
cism,— that  of  Gottsched  and  his  followers,  at  Leip- 
sig,  on  the  one  hand,  that  of  Bodmer  and  Breitinger, 
at  Zurich  (known  as  the  Swiss),  on  the  other, — 
battled  stoutly  over  many  points.  As  Gottsched 
liked  the  French,  the  Swiss  liked  the  English  ;  they 
blamed  French  writers  as  being  formal  and  artifi- 
cial, demanded  nature,  and  loved  Shakespeare  and 


KLOPSTOCK,    WIELAND,    HERDER.  301 

Milton,  whom  they  sought  to  make  widely  known. 
Their  hearty  effort  the  school  of  Gottsched  as  heart- 
ily opposed,  declaring  that  English  poets  would 
never  receive  recognition,  much  less  be  imitated,  in 
Germany.  It  was  therefore  a  great  triumph  for 
the  Swiss,  when  in  1748,  three  cantos  of  an  epic 
poem  appeared,  called  the  "  Messias,"  whose  author 
had  manifestly  been  influenced  by  Milton,  —  a  poem 
which  brilliantly  justified  their  views,  and  aroused 
among  Germans  immediate  enthusiasm.  It  was  the 
production  of  a  youth  scarcely  beyond  his  twen- 
tieth year,  a  theological  student  at  Jena,  coming 
thither  from  Quedlinburg,  in  Saxony, — Friedrich 
Gottlieb  Klopstock.  His  boyhood  had  been  spent 
for  the  most  part  in  the  country  ;  he  was  a  good 
classical  scholar,  also  of  sincere  piety ;  he  plainly 
also  knew  the  "Paradise  Lost,"  although  he  fol- 
lowed his  model  in  no  servile  spirit.  The  omens 
were  unpropitious  for  Gottsched.  If  the  "Messias  " 
conquered  its  way  to  recognition,  his  prestige  was 
lost ;  he  fought  it  with  critical  thunder,  and  what- 
ever other  batteries  he  could  influence  opened  with 
him  to  destroy  the  apparition.  It  was  all  in  vain  ; 
Gottsched' s  real  services  were  forgotten  ;  from  the 
appearance  of  the  "Messias"  the  prestige  of  the 
Leipsig  school  was  broken,  and  Zurich  triumphed. 
The  * '  Messias '  *  of  Klopstock  was  important  in 
other  ways  than  as  deciding  the  controversy  between 
the  cities.  Though  modelled  upon  Milton,  as  Mil- 
ton is  thought  by  sonic  to  have  derived  some  hints 
from  the  Anglo-Saxon  poet,  Csedmon,  it  was  the 
first  great  epic  poem  since  the  days  of  the  Hohen- 


302  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

stauffen  in  which  the  German  spirit  moved  inde- 
pendently. In  all  other  directions  Germans  had 
accomplished  something.  Lyrics  had  been  written  ; 
there  was  a  dramatic  literature  of  a  certain  kind ; 
some  philosophy,  and  overmuch  theology ;  but  the 
field  of  the  epic  had  lain  fallow.  The  nation 
considered  that  the  gap  was  now  nobly  filled,  and 
the  young  Klopstock  was  set  beside  the  greatest 
poets.  Bodmer  at  once  invited  him  to  Ziirich, 
where,  however,  he  offended  the  over-severe  mag- 
nate by  a  cheerfulness  which  seems  to  have  been 
innocent  enough,  but  which  was  thought  inconsist- 
ent with  the  character  of  a  religious  poet.  He  was 
invited  to  Copenhagen,  and  a  pension  given  him, 
that  he  might  complete  the  "  Messias."  As  is  so 
often  the  case  in  the  history  of  authorship,  the  first 
accomplishment  of  Klopstock  was  the  best,  or  at 
least  the  most  successful.  The  instalments  of  his 
epic,  as  they  appeared  at  intervals  during  the  fol- 
lowing years,  met  with  a  reception  descending  grad- 
ually from  the  first  enthusiasm  toward  indifference. 
He  lived  to  a  great  age,  showing  through  life  a 
strongly-marked  character  and  sincere  piety,  never 
forfeiting  the  respect  of  his  countrymen,  although 
his  fame  was  soon  eclipsed  by  the  greater  figures 
that  appeared  upon  the  scene. 

It  is  for  the  "Messias"  that  Klopstock  will  be 
mainly  remembered,  but  there  was  still  another 
department  of  poetry  in  which  his  accomplishment 
was  important.  Besides  religion,  another  great  idea 
filled  his  soul,  that  of  patriotism,  and  the  time  in 
which  he  appeared  was  a  favorable  one  for  the  in- 


KLOPSTOCK,    WIELAND,    HERDER.  303 

fluence  of  one  so  disposed  and  gifted  to  be  felt  to 
the  utmost.  In  his  young  manhood  the  victories 
of  Frederick  the  Great  stirred  the  hearts  of  the 
nation,  and  prepared  them  to  listen  with  enthusiasm 
to  the  tones  of  a  lyre  strung  for  the  Fatherland. 
At  this  time  Klopstock  sung  the  victories  of  Her- 
mann in  the  old  day,  and  revived  in  the  hearts  of 
Germans  an  interest  in  the  faith  of  their  heathen 
ancestors.  From  Frederick  himself  he  turned  away, 
believing  him  to  be  a  despot,  directing  his  glance 
toward  the  past,  for  he  felt  there  was  no  present 
Germany.  He  had  a  spirit  that  was  full  of  love 
for  freedom  everywhere.  He  was  earnest  in  his 
sympathy  for  America  in  the  struggle  with  George 
III.  ;  earnest  too  in  behalf  of  France  at  the  time 
of  the  revolution,  until  the  excesses  caused  in 
him,  as  in  so  many  others  who  at  first  hailed  the 
uprising  with  joy,  a  terrified  reaction. 

Since  the  "  Messias  "  so  surpasses  in  interest  the 
other  works  of  Klopstock,  let  us  proceed  to  consider 
this  more  carefully,  omitting  further  mention  of  the 
rest.  Klopstock  had  the  intention  to  represent  po- 
etically the  history  of  Jesus  as  given  in  the  gospels. 
The  simple  choice  of  such  a  subject  had  much  to  do 
with  the  admiration  felt  for  the  poet  by  his  contem- 
poraries. The  cultivated  world  was  then,  in  the 
main,  religious,  and  rejoiced  to  have  a  German  vent- 
ure forth  in  emulation  of  the  much-praised  Briton. 

Looking  at  the  subject  technically,1  it  is  right  to 
say  that  the  story  of  Christ  is  not  well  adapted  for 

1  Kura. 


304  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

epic  treatment.  The  facts  are  so  few  and  simple 
that  the  poet  is  driven  to  inventions.  Since  it  is 
necessary  to  introduce  the  Deity,  the  mightiest  pict- 
ures seem  trifling ;  they  must  exist  within  the  lim- 
itations of  time  and  space,  and  every  limitation 
contradicts  divinity.  Just  so  with  the  world  of  spir- 
its, which  must  be  introduced  to  mediate  between 
God  and  man.  Though  Christianity  includes  a  be- 
lief in  angels,  these  beings  reach  no  definite  individ- 
uality ;  they  are  abstractions,  or  figures  of  allegory. 
A  great  epic  genius  might  perhaps  be  able  to  con- 
quer the  hindrance,  but  it  was  beyond  the  power  of 
Klopstock.  His  angels  are  mere  messengers  of  the 
Eternal,  without  distinction  of  character ;  they  are 
never  individuals  ;  indeed,  his  human  figures  are  not 
firmly  individualized.  It  is  claimed  indeed  that  in 
this  epic  all  proper  epic  spirit  is  wanting.  A  felici- 
tous plan,  an  artistic  ordering  of  events,  the  graphic 
representation  of  personalities,  —  for  all  these  we 
must  search  the  "  Messias  "  in  vain.  Judged,  how- 
ever, as  a  succession  of  lyrical  passages,  poetic  ex- 
pressions of  lofty  emotion,  the  verdict  is  different. 
In  this  direction  Klopstock  is  truly  great.  He  first 
saw  that  an  inspired  mood  must  have  an  inspired  ut- 
terance. He  considered  the  speech  of  the  people  un- 
poetic,  and  claimed  that  poetry  must  be  distinguished 
from  prose  by  unusualness.  He  might  easily  have 
fallen  into  pomposity,  but  was  kept  from  this  by  his 
good  sense  and  the  influence  exerted  over  him  by  the 
ancient  simple  writers,  noticeably  Luther.  Strength 
and  novelty  characterize  his  lines.  He  reproduced 
old  words,  made  new  words,  and  in  his  management 


KLOPSTOCK,    WIELAND,    HERDER.  305 

of  the  particles  by  means  of  which,  in  German  as 
in  Greek,  a  shading  so  delicate  can  be  given  to  the 
expression  of  an  idea,  he  is  only  surpassed  by  the 
greatest  writers.  His  style  had  great  nobleness, 
power,  and  point,  making  his  presentations  effective 
and  exalting.  When  he  represents  the  emotions  of 
a  Christian  believer,  the  great  bliss  of  the  pious,  or 
his  absorption  into  eternal  love ;  when  he  lends 
words  to  enthusiastic  devotion,  or  represents  the 
soul  tortured  by  doubt,  conscience  in  despair,  the 
heart  smitten  with  anguish,  then  he  is  unsurpass- 
able. He  writes  almost  with  the  dignity  and  power 
of  the  psalmist,  and  the  reader  is  carried  away  as 
by  a  sounding  storm.  The  parables  are  almost  the 
only  part  of  the  "Messias"  that  can  be  called  epic  ; 
in  these  the  first  half  is  particularly  rich.  He  some- 
times tries  to  express  emotion  where  none  really 
exists,  and  there  are  passages  which  are  character- 
ized as  sentimental,  childish,  sweetish,  trivial ;  but 
we  may  justly  call  him  a  great  lyric  poet,  —  indeed, 
Herder  pays  him  the  tribute  that,  in  place  of  the 
poetry  of  the  intellect  and  wit  which  had  existed 
before,  he  created  that  of  heart  and  feeling.  These 
words  of  Vilmar  seem  to  be  justly  and  finely  said : 
"Let  us  enjoy  his  greatness,  and  forget,  with  the 
majority,  of  his  contemporaries  who  hung  upon  him 
in  pious  feeling,  his  defects.  Let  us  rejoice  in  the 
gleaming  morning-star  which  arose  in  him  for  our 
literature,  and  quarrel  not  with  the  morning-star 
that  it  became  no  sun.  His  grave,  at  Ottersen, 
under  the  linden,  where  he  rests  at  the  side  of  his 
wife,  will  remain  a  revered  spot  forevermore  for 


306  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

every  German  who  has  the  courage  to  be   at  the 
same  time  a  German  and  a  Christian." 

The  influence  of  Klopstock  upon  his  generation 
was  profound,  winning  over  to  a  respect  for  Ger- 
man literature  a  multitude  of  the  best  and  most 
sober-minded,  so  preparing  the  way  in  this  class  for 
a  good  reception  of  the  mightier  spirits  who  were  to 
follow  him.  Noticeable  among  his  disciples  were 
the  young  men  of  the  Hain-Bimd,  —  the  "Grove 
Fraternity," — certain  students  of  the  University  of 
Gottingen,  who,  meeting  in  a  grove  of  oaks  near 
that  town  by  moonlight,  covered  themselves  ro- 
mantically with  chaplets,  devoting  themselves  to 
patriotic  poetry,  and  vowing  to  celebrate  the  birth- 
day of  Klopstock  as  their  leader.  There  are  names 
among  the  members  of  the  Hain-Bund  that,  in  a 
work  less  general  than  the  present,  should  have  at- 
tentive consideration,  - — particularly  the  translator 
Voss,  and  the  ballad-writer  Burger, — but  I  must 
content  myself  with  a  mere  mention  of  their  names. 

Side  by  side  with  Klopstock  lived  a  writer  differ- 
ing much  from  that  earnest  Puritan  in  gifts  and  char- 
acter, whom  we  must  briefly  estimate,  —  Christoph 
Martin  Wieland.  He  was  a  few  years  younger  than 
Klopstock ;  at  the  beginning,  a  precocious,,  impres- 
sible boy,  vacillating  between  pietism  and  free- 
thinking,  according  to  the  influences  that  surrounded 
him.  He  wrote  religious  and  patriotic  poems, 
through  which,  like  his  famous  leader,  he  drew  the 
attention  of  the  veteran  Bodmer,  and  in  his  turn 
was  hospitably  invited  to  Zurich.  Bright  and  re- 


KLOPSTOCK,    WIELAND,    HERDER.  307 

ceptive,  he  studied  here  for  two  years,  becoming 
accomplished  especially  in  Greek  and  English,  and 
drawing  to  himself  the  notice  of  the  world  by  a 
sharp  critique  of  an  amiable  writer,  conceived  in  a 
spirit  of  pietism,  and  quite  unjust.  The  paper  drew 
the  notice  of  Lessing,  who,  while  recognizing  the 
ability  of  the  writer,  sought,  by  a  stinging  reply,  to 
lead  him  from  his  errors,  and  at  the  same  time  de- 
fend a  man  unjustly  judged.  The  means  was  ef- 
fective. The  scales  fell  from  Wieland' s  eyes,  and 
he  came  soon  after  to  a  recognition  of  the  path  for 
which  his  powers  really  fitted  him.  The  patronage 
of  certain  dignitaries  gave  him  opportunity  to  be- 
come acquainted  with  the  world  of  fashion  and 
rank.  The  Duchess  Amalie  of  Weimar  selected 
him  to  be  the  tutor  of  her  sons,  and  henceforth  most 
of  his  long  life  was  spent  in  an  illustrious  circle,  of 
which  presently  there  will  be  much  to  say.  At 
twenty-five  he  wrote  his  poem  called  "  Musarion," 
which  established  his  fame  and  proved  that  he  had 
found  his  work.  What  Sterne  is  in  English  liter- 
ature is  Wieland  in  German,  except  that  we  may 
say  perhaps  that  the  German  is  a  somewhat  more 
solid  entity.  Wieland  had  a  blooming  fancy,  lively 
wit,  great  sensibility,  good  taste,  and  acuteness. 
He  was  a  story-teller  full  of  ease  and  delicate  grace, 
borrowing  his  materials  generally  from  the  "  Mar- 
chen  Welt,"  the  world  of  fairy  tales  ;  and  it  is  one 
of  his  chief  titles  to  distinction  that  he  first  wrought 
in  this  vein,  the  pioneer  of  a  multitude  of  men  of 
genius  who  in  times  after  him  made  themselves 
famous  here,  the  last  and  best  known  in  the  list, 


308  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

perhaps,  Hans  Christian  Andersen.  As  a  poet 
his  verse  is  most  harmonious,  with  a  rhythm  full  of 
easy  freedom  and  variety,  strongly  in  contrast  with 
Klopstock's  mighty,  high-sounding  line.  His  ease 
and  grace  were  gained  only  by  hard  labor.  "  It 
ought  to  be  reckoned  as  a  slight  desert,"  he  says 
characteristically,  "that  I  was  never  tired  of  licking 
my  bears  into  shape  as  they  were  born,  and  making 
them  as  presentable  as  I  could."  He  was  wanting 
in  power  of  invention,  but  had  a  happy  faculty  of 
elaborating  what  might  be  furnished  to  him.  His 
greatest  and  most  complete  work  is  "  Oberon,"  of 
which  Gothe  said:  "As  long  as  poetry  remains 
poetry,  gold  gold,  and  crystal  crystal,  it  will  be 
loved  and  admired  as  a  masterpiece  of  poetic  art." 
The  story  of  Oberon  is  taken  from  an  old  French 
romance,  "  Huon  of  Bordeaux,"  and  has  its  scene  in 
the  East  and  fairy-land.  The  real  and  fanciful  world 
are  well  blended  together, — the  one  depending 
upon  the  other.  The  adventures  of  the  mortal  hero 
and  heroine  are  skilfully  united  with  the  story  of  the 
quarrel  and  reconciliation  of  Oberon  and  Titania, — 
something  in  the  manner  of  the  "Midsummer- 
Night's  Dream  "  of  Shakespeare, — and  all  is  made 
clear  and  symmetrical.  In  his  romances,  Wieland 
in  no  way  reaches  the  artistic  height  of  his  poems. 
He  is  prolix,  full  of  long  digressions,  so  that  the 
unity  of  his  works  is  much  injured  ;  but  even  when 
garrulous  he  is  bright  and  charming.  His  scenes 
are  almost  always  in  Greece,  or  the  far  East,  but  the 
personages  are  Germans  or  French  of  Wieland' s 
time.  Often  the  delineations,  like  Swift's  Lillipu- 


KLOPSTOCK,     WIELAND,    AND    HERDER.        309 

tians  and  Brobdignagians  in  Gulliver,  are  made  the 
vehicles  of  tine  satire.  Sometimes  his  gaiety  stoops 
to  licentiousness ;  and  here  too,  as  in  so  many 
other  respects,  he  resembles  his  English  contempo- 
rary, Sterne. 

Among  the  romances  the  Abderites  is  particularly 
witty  and  pleasant,  in  which  he  employs  an  assumed 
antiquity  to  veil  a  satire  on  the  petty  incidents  and 
foibles  of  life  in  a  provincial  town.  The  Abderites 
are  a  people  ironically  styled  wise ;  they  erect  a 
fountain,  with  costly  sculptures,  and  forget,  until  all 
is  done,  that  there  is  not  water  enough  to  moisten 
the  nose  of  a  single  dolphin  ;  they  place  a  beautiful 
statue  of  Venus  —  a  masterpiece  of  which  they  are 
very  proud  —  on  a  pedestal  so  high  that  the  statue 
becomes  well-nigh  invisible,  the  idea  being  that  in 
this  way  it  may  be  well  seen  by  all  travellers  ap- 
proaching the  city.  But  the  long  account  of  the 
great  lawsuit  in  Abdera  is  the  most  amusing  part  of 
the  story.  In  the  city  there  was  only  one  dentist, 
who  had  an  extensive  practice  in  the  neighborhood, 
and  travelled  from  place  to  place.  On  one  occasion 
he  had  an  ass  and  its  driver  to  carry  his  baggage 
across  a  wide  heath.  It  was  a  hot  and  bright  sum- 
mer's day,  and  the  weary  dentist  was  glad  to  sit 
down  and  rest  awhile  in  the  shadow  cast  from  the 
figure  of  the  ass.  Against  this  appropriation  of  a 
shade  the  driver,  who  was  also  the  owner  of  the  ass, 
protested,  saying  that  nothing  had  been  said  in  the 
bargain  about  any  such  use  of  the  shadow.  The 
dentist  must  therefore  either  come  out  of  the  shade, 
or  pay  something  extra  for  its  use.  He  refused 


310  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

to  do  so,  and  a  lawsuit  was  the  result;  the  best 
lawyers  of  Abdera  were  employed  on  each  side, 
and  the  whole  population  of  the  town  was  soon 
divided  into  parties  styled  respectively  "  Asses  " 
and  "  Shadows."  So  bitter  was  their  enmity  that 
an  "ass"  would  not  sit  down  at  the  same  table 
with  a  "shadow."  It  was  a  biting  and  effective 
satire  upon  prevailing  forms  of  litigation. 

Wieland,  then,  following  the  influence  of  Klop- 
stock,  and  at  first  taking  a  direction  for  which  he 
was  not  fitted,  at  length  discovered  his  true  path, 
and  had  an  important  influence  in  rectifying  a  cer- 
tain one-sidedness  in  the  views  of  his  former  teacher. 
Klopstock,  as  we  have  seen,  had  breathed  into  the 
language  strength,  majesty,  and  poetic  life,  given 
it  a  power  such  as  it  had  not  before  possessed  for 
the  expression  of  exalted  emotions,  like  patriotism 
and  religion.  With  the  advantage  came  a  certain 
turgid  stiffness — a  departure  from  simplicity  — 
which  was  ill  adapted  especially  to  the  representa- 
tion of  things  cheerful  and  charming,  and  even  to 
the  ordinary  relations  of  life.  Wielaud  showed 
that  German  could  deal  also  with  the  light  and 
sportive,  —  was  available  for  merry  jest  as  well  as 
dignified  sobriety ;  and  while  he  did  so,  touched 
sometimes  upon  the  frivolous  and  immoral. 

Klopstock  and  Lessing  had  won  the  religious  and 
intellectual  classes  ;  so  Wieland  gained  unbounded 
popularity  with  the  world  of  elegant  fashion,  whom 
the  greater  writers  were  too  grave  to  reach.  Here- 
tofore the  elegant  world  had  recognized  no  culture 
but  the  French,  and  not  believed  in  the  possibility 


KLOPSTOCK,    WIELAND,    HERDER.  311 

of  a  readable  German  book.  To  Wieland  belongs 
the  credit  of  winning  from  them  some  respect  for 
their  despised  mother-tongue,  and  he  may,  there- 
fore, be  mentioned  with  the  grander  names  who  were 
preparing  for  the  new  day,  trifling  though  he  may 
be  in  comparison.  His  popularity  was  immense  ; 
Napoleon  gave  him  the  ribbon  of  the  Legion  of 
Honor;  Alexander  of  Kussia  made  him  a  noble. 
He  wrought  his  vein  with  true  German  patience, 
doing  some  of  his  best  work  beyond  his  seventieth 
year,  showing  to  the  world  at  last  forty-two  solid 
volumes  of  accomplishment.  His  sunny,  amiable 
nature  made  him  a  favorite,  and  one  is  drawn 
toward  him  more  strongly  than  toward  many  of  his 
greater  contemporaries,  when  we  read  that  he  was 
singularly  free  from  envy  and  unmanly  sensitive- 
ness. It  should  be  reckoned  among  his  deserts  that 
he  appreciated  and  translated  Shakespeare. 

Following  Wieland,  after  an  interval  of  a  decade, 
contemporary,  but  making  his  influence  felt  a  little 
later,  appears  a  figure  greater  than  either,  and  only 
second  to  the  mightiest, — that  of  Johann  Gott- 
fried Herder.  At  Mohrungen,  among  the  Poles,  in 
East  Prussia,  he  was  born,  the  son  of  a  poor 
villager  who  combined  the  office  of  teacher  of  the 
girls'  school  with  that  of  bell-ringer  and  singer  in 
the  choir.  From  the  first  the  boy  was  pious,  and 
interested  in  books  and  music,  and  when  he  was 
sixteen  the  dean  of  the  parish,  seeing  his  intelli- 
gence, took  him  into  his  household,  where  he  found 
opportunity  to  study.  From  the  first  he  had  re- 


312  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

markable  power  of  impressing  himself.  The  sur- 
geon of  a  Russian  regiment,  temporarily  in  the  vil- 
lage, offered  to  take  him  to  Konigsberg  to  study 
medicine,  and  afterwards  to  St.  Petersburg.  Her- 
der had  no  inclination  in  this  direction,  but  accepted 
the  offer  as  likely  to  lead  out  into  a  broader  oppor- 
tunity for  culture.  We  soon  find  him  a  student  of 
theology,  filling  his  mind  with  extraordinary  avidity, 
and  becoming  a  favorite  with  Kant,  then  rising  into 
fame.  Kant's  strictly  philosophical  lectures  appear 
to  have  pleased  him  less  than  those  in  astronomy 
and  physics,  although  the  thinker  possessed  at  that 
time  his  youthful  eloquence,  and  used  a  much  clearer 
language  than  his  later  scholastic  technicalities. 
Kant  encouraged  him,  and  often  gave  him  his  own 
manuscripts  to  criticise.  At  Konigsberg  lived  also 
a  mystical  thinker  named  Hamann,  a  man  of  many 
ideas,  but  with  no  faculty  of  clear  expression,  from 
whom  Herder  caught  an  enthusiasm  for  English  writ- 
ers, particularly  Shakespeare  and  Ossian,  and  gained 
many  notions  which  affected  his  subsequent  career. 
At  twenty  we  find  him  in  the  city  of  Riga,  making 
himself  even  then  famous  as  a  teacher  and  preacher, 
and  publishing  writings  which  go  beyond  the  local 
circles.  Soon  after,  he  sets  out  upon  travels,  —  for 
those  days  extensive, — seeing,  besides  Germany,  the 
Netherlands  and  France,  where  he  spends  some 
months  in  Paris,  getting  rid  of  provincial  preju- 
dices and  broadening  his  culture  by  visits  to  thea- 
tres, libraries,  and  art  collections.  The  prince  of 
Holstein  Oldenburg  takes  him  as  a  tutor,  in  which 
position  he  has  still  further  opportunities. 


KLOPSTOCK,    WIELAND,    HERDER.  313 

At  length  at  Strassburg,  in  1770,  where  he  goes 
temporarily  for  surgical  help  for  a  trouble  of  the 
eye,  he  makes  an  acquaintance,  for  him  the  most 
important  of  his  life,  and  full  of  consequence  to  the 
world.  It  was  at  the  Hotel  de  1' Esprit.  It  is  well 
to  give  a  particular  picture  of  so  memorable  an  in- 
terview, and  fortunately  we  have  the  means  of  do- 
ing so  in  the  account  of  one  of  the  personages  con- 
cerned. Herder  one  day  stood  at  the  foot  of  the 
staircase,  about  to  ascend  to  his  room.  He  was 
tall ;  his  face  was  round,  his  forehead  large  and  com- 
manding ;  his  nose  somewhat  short;  although  his 
lips  were  rather  too  thick,  his  mouth  was  agreeably 
formed.  His  eyes,  heavily  shaded  by  black  eye- 
brows, were  piercing,  the  effect  not  destroyed  by  the 
inflammation  to  which  one  of  them  was  subject.  He 
wore  his  hair  curled  and  dressed  ;  his  coat  was  black, 
and  over  it  was  thrown  a  long  silk  cloak  of  the  same 
color.  The  costume  was  elegant,  and,  together  with 
a  certain  delicacy  and  decorum  in  his  bearing, 
seemed  to  mark  him  as  a  clergyman.  He  was  now 
twenty-seven  years  old.  As  he  began  the  ascent  to 
his  room  he  was  accosted  by  a  youth  of  twenty-one, 
of  the  most  striking  appearance.  He  was  above  the 
middle  size,  and  superbly  formed,  —  the  ideal  of 
symmetry  and  strength  in  every  limb.  His  face  was 
beautiful  as  that  of  an  antique  divinity,  the  eyes  in 
particular,  having  pupils  uncommonly  large,  and  all 
alive  with  an  extraordinary  ardor.  He  was  dressed 
in  the  costume  of  a  student,  and  accosted  Herder 
with  the  nonchalance  of  that  class,  as  if  he  were  an 
old  acquaintance.  Herder  was  pleased  with  the 


314  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

young  man's  open  manner,  and  responded  civilly. 
Out  of  the  chance  meeting  a  conversation  arose, 
which  became  animated,  and  when  the  two  parted 
the  student  requested  permission  to  come  again, 
which  Herder  granted  with  pleasure.  The  hand- 
some student  was  the  young  Gothe.1 

They  came  together  again  and  again,  and  Gothe, 
in  his  autobiography,  gives  us  the  particulars  of 
the  intimacy.  Herder  liked  the  student,  but  seems 
to  have  had  no  appreciation  then  of  the  extraordi- 
nary genius  he  possessed,  describing  him  in  a  letter 
as  somewhat  too  light  and  sparrow-like.  Gothe,  on 
his  part,  was  strongly  drawn  toward  Herder.  He 
was  at  this  time  all  at  sea  as  to  his  career, — a  dab- 
bler in  medicine,  in  art,  in  literature  ;  full  of  animal 
spirits,  giving  frequent  scandal  to  his  decorous 
friends  by  his  wild  escapades.  Herder  inspired  him 
through  his  powerful  character  and  great  attain- 
ments. Gothe  told  him  unreservedly  of  his  pur- 
suits and  aspirations,  and  although  often  treated 
with  imperious  harshness,  a  fault  which  Herder 
never  lost,  submitted  himself  in  a  wonderful  way 
to  his  influence.  In  the  hope  of  receiving  benefit 
in  his  infirmity,  Herder  underwent  painful  surgical 
operations,  Gothe  standing  at  his  side.  The  experi- 
ence cemented  their  friendship,  the  one  admiring 
the  great  fortitude  with  which  the  suffering  was  en- 
countered, the  other  grateful  for  the  sympathy 
shown.  "  Such  of  my  elders,"  says  Gothe,  "  as  I 
had  hitherto  associated  with  had  tried  to  improve 


1  Lewes'  Life  of  Gothe. 


KLOPSTOCK,    WIELAND,    HERDER.  315 

me  by  too  great  indulgence.  But  as  to  Herder,  his 
approbation  was  never  to  be  reckoned  upon,  no 
matter  in  what  way  it  might  be  sought.  My  strong 
attachment  to  and  respect  for  him,  the  dissatisfac- 
tion with  myself  he  excited  in  me,  kept  me  in  a  state 
of  internal  contention  which  I  had  never  before  ex- 
perienced. *  *  *  I  found  myself  initiated,  on 
a  sudden,  into  all  the  attempts  and  views  of  our  lit- 
erary men,  in  which  he  himself  appeared  to  take  an 
active  part.  *  *  *  From  Herder  I  learned  to 
look  upon  poetry  from  a  new  point  of  view,  with 
which  I  was  much  pleased.  That  of  the  Hebrews, 
the  popular  songs,  the  primitive  examples  of  poetry 
everywhere,  all  proved,  in  his  opinion,  that  poetry 
was  not  the  privilege  of  a  few  individuals,  polished 
by  careful  cultivation,  but  an  inherent  faculty  in  the 
human  mind.  I  engaged  with  eagerness  in  all  the 
studies,  and  my  avidity  to  learn  equalled  the  gener- 
ous zeal  of  my  instructor."1  In  short,  it  maybe 
said  that  the  acquaintance  —  while  for  Herder  it 
changed  the  course  of  his  life,  in  ways  which  will  be 
spoken  of  presently,  —  for  Gothe,  was  one  of  the 
most  important  turning-points  of  his  career,  deciding 
him  perhaps  to  adopt  literature  as  his  calling,  and 
giving  him  views  which  prevailed  with  him  through 
life.  The  power  of  Herder's  character,  running 
out  sometimes  into  arrogance,  but  still  very  impres- 
sive, is  shown  in  the  way  in  which  he  dominated 
even  so  remarkable  a  man  as  Gothe.  "  Herder, 
Herder!"  bursts  out  the  superb  youth,  "if  I  am 


Dichtung  und  "Wahrheit. 


316  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

destined  to  be  only  your  satellite,  so  will  I  be,  and 
willingly  and  truly,  a  friendly  moon  to  your  earth. 
But  you  must  feel  that  I  would  rather  be  a  planet, — 
Mercury  even,  the  smallest  of  the  seven, — to  re- 
volve with  you  about  the  sun,  than  the  first  of  the 
five  which  turn  around  Saturn." 

It  was  the  influence  of  Herder  which  turned  Gothe 
to  literature  ;  Gothe,  in  turn,  shaped  the  whole  life- 
course  of  Herder.  A  few  years  more  follow,  of 
astonishing  acquirement  and  constant  writing,  dur- 
ing which  Herder  rises  more  and  more  upon  the 
world.  At  length,  when  thirty-two,  at  Gothe' s  sug- 
gestion, he  is  invited  to  Weimar,  to  a  high  eccle- 
siastical position,  which  he  accepts,  becoming  at 
last  the  head  of  the  church  in  the  grand  duchy. 
He  discharges  with  zeal  the  duties  of  his  place,  and 
accomplishes,  as  will  be  seen,  wonders  in  work  of  a 
more  general  character.  At  one  time  he  sees  Italy ; 
for  the  most  part  he  remains  in  Weimar,  reverenced 
by  great  and  humble,  subduing  those  who  surround 
him  by  an  extraordinary  personal  power,  affecting 
all  Europe  through  his  pen,  leading  a  life  blameless 
and  fruitful  for  good,  until  he  dies,  in  1803,  at  the 
age  of  fifty-six. 

Both  in  poetry  and  prose  the  work  and  influence 
of  Herder  have  been  of  immense  importance.  Like 
Lessing,  he  had  really  little  original  poetic  talent, 
but  had  a  power,  never  equalled  before  or  since,  of 
receiving  into  his  mind  all  poetic  life,  and  repro- 
ducing it  again  with  perfect  truth.1  He  taught 

i  Kurz. 


KLOPSTOCK,    WIELAND,    HERDER.  317 

that  in  poetry  it  was  not  enough  that  the  form 
should  be  artistic  (preceding  critics  had  been  satis- 
fied to  speak  merely  of  rhyme  and  metre)  ;  ante- 
cedent to  this  must  come  the  poetic  comprehension 
of  life  and  its  phenomena,  that  this  was  the  living 
spring,  the  same  in  all  times  and  lands,  and  that  it 
is  to  be  found  at  its  purest  in  the  folk-song,  the 
poetry  of  the  people.  He  taught  that  poetry  was 
as  necessary  a  human  expression  as  language  ;  that 
however  manifold  the  forms  might  be,  the  source 
was  always  the  same.  This  theory,  again  and  again 
enunciated,  he  illustrated  by  multitudes  of  exam- 
ples. He  sought  a  knowledge  of  the  folk-songs  of 
all  times  and  races.  He  first  introduced  to  Germans 
the  Oriental  literatures,  making  known  the  Hindoo 
Sacontala,  imitating  from  the  Persian,  as  well  as 
translating  from  the  Hebrew.  He  was  fully  at  home 
with  the  songs  of  Greece  and  Rome,  called  attention 
to  the  value  of  the  old  German  memorials,  and 
penetrated  to  the  four  corners  of  the  earth,  while 
he  sought  what  he  loved  in  all  modern  literatures. 
For  Bishop  Percy's  "  Reliques  "  he  felt  extraordi- 
nary enthusiasm,  and  knew  as  well  the  ballads  of 
Spain  and  Russia. 

One  is  filled  with  awe  at  the  research  of  this  su- 
perb enthusiast,  —  so  catholic,  so  tireless,  with  sense 
so  unerring  in  the  hunt  for  pearls  near  and  far 
away  !  In  his  heaping  volumes,  we  are  now  in  the 
Rose-garden  of  Saadi ;  now  striving  with  the  Moors 
in  splendid  elaborations  of  the  Spanish  ballads  of 
the  Cid ;  now  it  is  Horace  and  Perseus  ;  now  some 
Brahminic  outpouring.  On  one  page  flows  an  idyl 


318  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

of  Theocritus  ;  on  another  a  Lapland  lover  sings  to 
his  mistress,  or  we  hear  the  passion  of  a  Persian 
maid.  Now  we  are  swept  on  by  the  artless  power 
of  a  Scotch  ballad ;  now  by  the  holy  pulsing  of  a 
psalm.  Here  it  is  the  wild  rhyme  of  a  Norse  scald ; 
here  a  breath  from  Sicily,  calling  up  orange  groves 
upon  opal  seas  ;  a  Chinese  ditty,  or  an  Indian  war- 
song.  They  are  reproductions,  not  translations. 
Herder  himself  best  describes  his  method.  Speak- 
ing of  his  renderings  from  one  poet,  where  he  did 
as  always,  he  says:  "I  followed  the  spirit  of  his 
muse,  not  every  one  of  his  words  and  pictures.  In 
his  lyrics  I  kept  the  peculiar  tone  of  each  in  my  ear, 
the  import  and  outline  of  the  same  in  my  eye.  I 
have  not  lent  him  beauties,  but  perhaps  done  away 
with  blemishes,  because  I  honored  his  great  genius 
too  much  to  expose  him  here.  Where  his  poem  ap- 
peared to  want  something  in  distinctness,  I  deepened 
the  outlines  with  a  light  hand,  as  with  an  old  draw- 
ing. Generally  speaking,  I  was  more  occupied  with 
the  spirit  which  breathes  in  his  poems  than  with  the 
clothing,  although  this  charmed  me  much." 

Thus,  with  the  rarest  learning,  he  collected  grains 
of  gold  from  a  thousand  books,  preserving  the 
peculiarities  of  the  different  times  and  lands,  of 
different  characters  and  conditions,  marking  the 
finest  transitions;  the  delicate  shadings  —  the  most 
subtle  coloring  —  stamped  in  with  perfect  truth  and 
fidelity.  He  had  little  creative  fancy.  His  own 
poems,  when  compared  with  his  renderings,  seem 
far  inferior.  His  gift  was  that  of  appropriating  the 
foreign,  fathoming  and  reproducing  again  the  most 


KLOPSTOCK,    WIELAND,    HERDER.  319 

concealed  beauties  and  sense.  Of  the  many  vol- 
umes in  which  his  labors  in  this  direction  are  con- 
tained, the  work  called  the  "  Spirit  of  Hebrew- 
Poetry  "  has,  perhaps  more  than  any  other,  gained 
the  admiration  of  his  countrymen  and  the  world. 
There,  in  psalm  and  prophetic  rhapsody,  the  pas- 
sion is  of  the  sublimest,  and,  like  a  marvellous  con- 
duit, the  soul  of  Herder  pours  it  all  forth  in  floods 
as  warm,  as  abundant,  as  quickening. 

The  prose  writings  of  Herder  are  as  numerous 
as  his  poetical  labors.  He  first  gained  attention  by 
pieces  of  literary  criticism  contributed  to  the  pe- 
riodicals of  the  time,  and  while  still  very  young 
wrote  a  treatise  on  the  ««  Origin  of  Language," 
which  was  crowned  by  the  Berlin  Academy.  The- 
ology and  philosophy  received  attention  from  his 
prolific  mind  ;  he  was  also  the  first  preacher  of  his 
day.1  Passing  over  the  briefer  labors,  let  us  turn  at 
once  to  his  magnum  opus,  —  the  "  Ideas  for  a  Philos- 
ophy of  the  History  of  Humanity," — a  vast  work, 
superb  in  every  way,  of  extraordinary  erudition  and 
wonderful  grasp,  a  work  deserving  a  place  among 
the  mightiest  accomplishments  of  the  human  mind. 
We  cannot  say  that  Herder  created  the  philosophy 
of  history.  Bossuet,  in  France,  had  preceded  him  ; 
so  too  the  profound  Italian,  Vico,  and  later  still, 
Voltaire.  Herder  proceeded,  however,  upon  an 
original  plan,  which  he  developed  with  most  extra- 
ordinary elaboration.  "  When  I  was  quite  young," 
he  says  in  his  preface,  "when  the  fields  of  knowl- 

1  Kurz. 


320  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

edge  yet  lay  before  me  in  all  their  morning  beauty, 
from  which  the  mid-day  sun  of  our  life  draws  so 
much,  the  thought  often  occurred  to  me  whether, 
when  all  in  the  world  has  its  philosophy  and 
science,  that  which  touches  us  most  closely,  the 
history  of  humanity,  ought  not  to  have  a  philoso- 
phy and  science.  Everything  called  this  to  my 
mind, —  metaphysics  and  ethics,  physics  and  nat- 
ural history.  The  God  who  in  nature  has  arranged 
everything  according  to  measure,  number,  and 
weight;  who  has  ordered  the  essence  of  things 
accordingly,  their  forms  and  associations,  their 
course  and  maintenance,  so  that  from  the  great 
world-building  to  the  dust-grain,  from  the  power 
that  holds  sun  and  earth  to  the  thread  of  a  spider- 
web,  only  one  wisdom,  goodness,  and  power  rules  ; 
He  who  in  the  human  body,  and  in  the  powers  of 
the  human  soul,  has  considered  everything  so  won- 
derfully, so  divinely,  that  if  we  venture  to  think 
after  the  Omniscient  we  lose  ourselves  in  an  abyss 
of  His  thoughts, — how,  said  I  to  myself,  should 
this  God,  in  determining  and  creating  OUR  RACE, 
have  departed  from  His  wisdom  and  goodness,  and 
have  had  here  no  plan  ?  Or  did  He  want  to  conceal 
it  from  us,  since  He  showed  us  in  the  lower  crea- 
tion, which  little  concerns  us,  so  many  of  the  pre- 
scriptions of  His  eternal  law?  " 

Long  before  his  great  work  appears,  then,  its 
ideas  were  occupying  him.  Of  the  twenty-five 
books  projected,  twenty  only  were  finished,  the 
remainder  existing  only  in  plan  ;  but  as  I  give  you 
the  sketch,  you  will  not  wonder  they  were  left  in- 


KLOPSTOCK,    W ISLAND,    HERDER.  321 

complete.  The  first  five  books,  which  form  the  first 
part,  contain  the  foundation  of  the  work,  partly  in 
a  general  sketch  of  our  dwelling-place,  the  material 
universe,  partly  in  a  review  of  the  organizations 
which  enjoy  with  us  the  light  of  the  sun.  He  re- 
gards the  earth  at  first  as  part  of  the  universe  with 
relation  to  the  other  worlds  ;  then  in  itself  according 
to  its  constitution.  He  represents  it  as  a  great  work- 
shop for  the  organization  of  very  different  beings, 
and  examines  the  various  kingdoms  of  nature  —  an- 
imal, vegetable,  and  mineral  —  in  their  relation  to 
man.  He  dwells  longest  upon  the  animal  kingdom, 
shows  the  nature  of  its  creatures,  their  difference 
from  man  ;  then  passes  to  the  consideration  of  man 
himself,  his  being  and  task.  In  part  second,  from 
book  sixth  to  book  tenth,  he  shows  the  organiza- 
tion of  different  races,  according  to  their  dwelling- 
places,  so  different  in  situation,  climate,  and  soil, 
drawing  the  conclusion  of  the  unity  of  the  human 
race  ;  that  while,  to  be  sure,  outward  circumstances 
have  the  most  decisive  influence  upon  bodily  and 
mental  constitution,  for  men  an  inner  power  has 
been  created,  which  everywhere  appears  the  same, 
and  must  be  regarded  as  the  mother  of  all  develop- 
ment. The  particular  form  which  the  life-power 
has  once  impressed  on  the  mind  and  activity  of  man, 
under  the  cooperation  of  outward  circumstances, 
is  transmitted  through  tradition  and  habit ;  and  so, 
among  other  things,  forms  of  government  and  re- 
ligion are  transmitted  heritages.  This  leads  him  to 
the  investigation  of  the  question  where  the  forming 
centre  and  oldest  home  of  man  is,  and  to  the  setting 


322  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

forth  of  the  Asiatic  declarations  about  the  creation 
of  the  earth,  and  the  oldest  written  traditions  of  the 
origin  of  the  human  race.  In  the  third  part,  from 
book  eleventh  to  book  fifteenth,  the  historical  de- 
velopment of  particular  races  is  treated.  Proceed- 
ing from  China,  he  gradually  considers  the  most 
important  Asiatic  nations,  and  devotes  two  books, 
which  are  among  the  best  of  the  work,  to  the  Greeks 
and  the  Romans.  In  the  fifteenth  book,  which  was 
much  praised  by  Gothe,  Herder  enthusiastically  un- 
folds the  course  of  human  development  from  an- 
tiquity to  modern  times.  Humanity  is  the  aim  of 
human  nature,  and  to  this  end  God  has  given  into 
the  hands  of  our  race  its  own  fate.  All  the  destruc- 
tive powers  in  nature  must  not  only,  in  course  of 
time,  submit  to  the  maintaining  powers,  but  also 
serve  in  the  development  of  the  whole  ;  and  since 
reason  and  propriety,  according  to  the  laws  of  their 
inner  nature,  must  always  win  more  space  among 
men,  they  must  all  the  more  further  a  permanent 
condition  of  the  race,  since  at  the  same  time  a  wise 
goodness  rules  in  the  fate  of  men.  In  the  fourth 
part  the  Middle  Ages  are  considered,  the  origin  and 
course  of  Christianity  are  detailed,  the  influence  of 
the  papacy  and  Mahometanism  discussed,  their  more 
important  phenomena  touched  upon, — as,  the  course 
of  commerce,  chivalry,  the  crusades,  the  geograph- 
ical discoveries.  But  here  stopped  the  busy  hand 
and  brain. 

Upon  its  first  appearance,  the  marvellous  work 
encountered  opposition.  The  science  and  philoso- 
phy even  of  that  time  found  fault  with  the  discus- 


KLOPSTOCK,    WIELAND,    HERDER.  323 

sions  of  the  first  part.  This  book — the  whole  work, 
indeed  —  contained  much  which  even  then  had  to  be 
rejected  as  without  foundation,  far  more  which  our 
later  progress  has  found  untenable.  Even  what  is 
purely  historical  is  often  faultily  comprehended. 
Still,  Herder's  "  Ideas  for  the  Philosophy  of  His- 
tory "  is  a  work  significant  and  important,  like  the 
"  Novum  Organum  "  of  Bacon,  because  it  led  the 
way  to  a  profounder  comprehension  of  history  ;  be- 
cause it  showed  that  in  particular  phenomena  a  gen- 
eral, uniting  thought  lives,  which  expresses  itself 
certainly  never  completely,  often  only  very  poorly, 
but  guides  the  whole  race  of  man.  Most  powerful 
has  been  the  "  Philosophy  of  History  "  in  its  influ- 
ence. Therein  lies  not  merely  many  a  germ  which 
was  developed  later  by  others  ;  few  books  have  so 
wrought  upon  the  world's  general  culture  as  this. 
It  passed  over  to  such  an  extent  into  the  possession 
of  the  cultivated  that,  as  Go  the  well  says,  "  Only 
a  few  of  those  who  now  read  it  are  instructed  by 
it  for  the  first  time  ;  for  through  the  hundredfold 
borrowings  from  it  they  have  been  fully  instructed 
in  other  connections."  l  What  is  true  of  Germans 
is  true  too  of  us.  The  great  thoughts  of  Herder 
have  passed  into  the  consciousness  of  the  race, — 
become  the  very  axioms  and  first  principles  upon 
which  we  act,  believing  them  to  be  born  with  us. 
The  "Philosophy  of  History"  laid  the  foundation 
upon  which  scores  of  great  thinkers  since  his  time 
have  builded.  Here  Karl  Hitter  found  the  germ 


Eckermann's  Gesprache. 


324  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

which  he  developed  into  his  Physical  Geography ; 
hence  Hegel  and  Humboldt  took  their  starting-point. 
And  not  alone  in  Germany ;  Guizot  in  France, 
Buckle  and  Lecky  in  England,  Draper  in  Amer- 
ica, —  all  in  fact  who  grapple  deeply  with  the  prob- 
lem of  human  development,  —  must  owe  their  debt 
to  the  mighty  Weimar  preacher. 

Here  are  a  few  sentences  which  will  perhaps  help 
the  reader  to  understand  the  grasp,  the  eloquent 
sweep,  the  noble  humanity,  of  Herder's  prose  : 

*  *  *  «  Why  was  it  denied  thee,  thou  tran- 
scendent, magnificent  Hannibal,  to  prevent  the  ruin  of 
thy  fatherland,  and  after  the  victory  at  Caiinse,  hasten 
straight  to  the  den  of  thy  wolf-like,  hereditary  foe  ?  " 
*  *  *  "  Whithersoever  my  look  turns,  it  beholds 
destruction  ;  for  everywhere  did  these  conquerors  of 
the  world  leave  the  same  traces.  Had  the  Romans 
been  really  the  emancipators  of  Greece,  under  which 
magnanimous  name  they  had  themselves  announced 
at  the  Isthmian  games  to  this  race,  which  had  be- 
come childish,  how  differently  they  would  have  pro- 
ceeded !  But  when  Paulus  ^rnilius  causes  seventy 
cities  of  Epirus  to  be  plundered,  and  a  hundred  and 
fifty  thousand  men  to  be  sold  as  slaves,  merely  to 
reward  his  army ;  when  Metellus  and  Silanus  de- 
vastate and  rob  Macedonia ;  Mummius,  Corinth ; 
Sulla,  Athens  and  Delphi,  as  scarcely  any  other 
cities  in  the  world  have  been  maltreated  ;  when  this 
ruin  extends  itself  to  the  islands  of  Greece,  and 
Rhodes,  Cyprus,  and  Crete  have  no  better  fate  than 
Greece  itself,  namely,  to  become  toll-houses  for 
tribute  and  places  for  plundering  for  the  triumphs 


KLOPSTOCK,    WIELAND,    HERDER.  325 

of  Rome  ;  when  the  last  king  of  Macedonia,  with 
his  sons,  is  first  led  about  in  triumph,  then  left 
to  languish  in  the  most  wretched  of  dungeons  ;  when 
the  last  sparks  of  Grecian  freedom  in  the  ^Etolian 
and  Achaian  leagues  are  destroyed,  and  at  length 
the  whole  land  becomes  a  battle-field,  on  which  the 
rapacious,  devastating  hordes  of  the  triumvirs  at 
last  slay  one  another,  —  O,  Greece!  what  a  fate 
does  thy  protectress  bring  upon  thee  —  thy  instruc- 
tress, Rome,  teacher  of  the  world  !  All  that  is  left 
to  us  from  thee  is  ruins,  which  the  barbarians  car- 
ried with  them  as  booty  of  their  triumph,  that  all 
of  noble  art  which  humanity  had  ever  devised  might 
utterly  perish ! 

*  *  *  4  4  of  Gaul  there  is  little  to  say,  since  we 
know  of  its  subjugation  only  from  the  bulletins  of 
its  conqueror.  For  ten  years  it  cost  Caesar  incred- 
ible toil  and  all  the  force  of  his  great  soul.  Although 
he  was  more  noble-minded  than  any  Roman,  he 
could  not  change  his  Roman  nature,  and  won  the 
sad  renown  « of  having  fought  in  fifty  pitched  bat- 
tles, besides  the  civil  wars,  and  of  having  slain  in 
arms  eleven  hundred  and  ninety-two  thousand  men.' 
Most  of  these  were  Gallic  souls.  Where  are  the 
many  spirited  and  courageous  races  of  this  great 
land?  Where  was  their  force  and  bravery,  their 
numbers  and  vigor,  when,  after  centuries,  wild 
hordes  fell  upon  them  and  shared  them  as  slaves  ? 
Even  the  name  of  this  mighty  people  is  extin- 
guished,—  its  religion,  culture,  and  tongue.  Ye 
souls  great  and  noble,  Scipios  and  Caesar,  what 
thought  ye,  what  felt  ye,  when,  as  departed  spirits, 


326  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

from  the  starry  heavens  ye  looked  upon  Rome, — 
the  robber  cave,  —  and  the  completion  of  your  own 
murderous  handiwork?  How  soiled,  in  your  eyes, 
must  your  honor  seem ;  how  bloody  your  laurels  ; 
how  brutal  and  inhuman  your  butcher  skill .  Rome 
is  no  more.  Even  while  it  endured  must  every 
noble  citizen  have  confessed  that  curses  and  destruc- 
tion would  heap  themselves  upon  his  fatherland, 
with  all  these  monstrous  victories  of  ambition  !  " l 

In  addition  to  his  literary  greatness,  Herder  was 
one  of  the  most  impressive  speakers  of  his  time. 
Of  oratory,  as  we  understand  it,  the  Germans,  in 
the  past  and  at  present,  know  little.  In  Herder's 
time  all  free  speech  upon  political  questions  was  for- 
bidden, and  at  present  the  strong  imperial  govern- 
ment will  suffer  110  sharp  popular  criticism.  Foren- 
sic attack  and  defense,  which  in  England  and  America 
have  been  the  occasion  of  such  displays  of  human 
power,  have  been  out  of  the  question  in  Germany. 
The  pulpit  and  chair  of  the  professor  have  always 
given  to  orators  in  Germany  their  best  opportunity. 
Herder  possessed  a  rare  gift  for  imparting  in  con- 
versation the  enthusiasm  with  which  he  overflowed. 
His  physique  was  powerful  and  commanding;  of 
his  great  intellectual  and  moral  strength  he  was 
fully  conscious  ;  he  possessed  a  self-assertion  which, 
as  we  have  seen,  in  a  man  of  ordinary  gifts  would 
have  been  insufferable  arrogance,  and  which,  even 
in  his  case,  was  excessive.  Even  when  in  company 
with  men  of  the  greatest  genius  he  asserted  him- 


1  Book  xiv,  ch.  3.    Ideen  zur  Geschichte  der  Menscheit. 


KLOPSTOCK,    WIELAND,    HERDER.  327 

self  disagreeably,  —  as  Gothe,  Schiller,  and  Wie- 
land  complain.  "  The  man,"  said  Wieland,  charac- 
teristically, "  is  like  an  electric  cloud.  From  a 
distance  the  meteor  has  a  splendid  effect ;  but  may 
the  devil  have  such  a  meteor  hanging  over  his  head  ! 
I  would  like  to  have  a  dozen  Pyrenees  between  him 
and  me." 

But  if  in  social  life  he  was  an  uncomfortable 
companion,  in  the  pulpit, — where,  as  head  of  the 
church  of  the  land,  he  was  entitled  to  speak  with 
authority,  —  he  swayed,  like  reeds  shaken  by  the 
wind,  the  hearts  of  low  and  high.  In  his  early 
life  his  sermons  were  written ;  later  they  were  ex 
tempore,  and  of  extraordinary  richness.  He  de- 
manded that  the  pulpit  orators  should  abstain  from 
all  art,  and  preach  simply  in  popular  language. 
Says  one  hearer:  "  You  should  have  seen  how,  in 
a  few  moments,  he  chained  all  outbreaks  of  distrac- 
tion and  curiosity  to  stillness.  All  hearts  were 
opened,  every  eye  hung  upon  him  and  enjoyed  un- 
accustomed tears,  while  sighs  of  emotion  rustled 
through  the  moved  assembly.  Over  the  gospel  of 
the  day  he  uttered  himself  with  enthusiasm,  with 
the  clear,  lofty  simplicity  which  needs  no  word-fig- 
ures, no  arts  of  the  school.  So,  it  seems  to  me,  did 
the  apostles  preach."  Schiller  wrote  of  his  preach- 
ing, upon  an  ordinary  occasion:  "Last  Sunday  I 
heard  Herder  preach  for  the  first  time.  The  noble 
sermon  was  extremely  plain,  natural,  —  adapted  for 
the  people.  No  extravagant  gestures,  no  play  with 
the  voice,  —  a  simple,  earnest  expression.  One  can- 
not fail  to  remark  that  he  is  conscious  of  his  dig- 


328  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

nity.  The  feeling  too  that  he  has  universal  esteem 
gives  him  self-possession  and  ease.  He  feels  that 
he  is  a  superior  mind  surrounded  by  minds  of  a 
lower  order.  His  sermon  pleased  me  better  than 
any  I  have  ever  heard  in  my  life."  Of  his  address 
at  the  baptism  of  the  hereditary  prince  of  Weimar, 
Wieland  wrote  :  "I  know  nothing  purer,  simpler, 
more  heart-touching,  more  finely  considered  or  felic- 
itously said,  either  in  German  or  any  other  tongue." 
And  of  the  same  sermon,  Gothe  said:  "Herder 
preached  like  a  god." 

We  have  indicated  the  foible  of  his  character. 
It  was  the  same  possessed  by  Macaulay,  Samuel 
Johnson  ;  greater  yet,  by  Milton.  From  first  to 
last  he  was  full  of  a  noble  purity,  and  untiring  in 
the  application  of  his  splendid  gifts  to  the  benefit 
of  men.  As  a  writer,  his  faults  are  diffuseness  and 
a  tendency  to  rhapsody,  which,  though  natural 
and  not  offensive  in  him,  when  imitated  by  his 
thousand  followers,  worked  injuriously  against  point 
and  simplicity. 

As  I  think  of  an  image  which  shall  best  typify 
the  great  son  of  the  poor  school-master  of  Mohrun- 
gen,  I  find  it  in  the  bee.  His  life  was  labor  ;  from 
himself  he  furnished  nothing,  but  going  restlessly 
from  land  to  land,  and  through  the  ages  of  the 
past,  with  an  unerring  instinct  he  perceived  where 
lay  the  honey ;  gathered  it  and  hived  it  with  in- 
dustry untiring,  that  it  might  bless  the  world  with  its 
sweetness.  Moreover,  dusty  with  the  pollen  caught 
in  his  flight  through  a  thousand  fields,  he  swept 
with  fructifying  touch  over  the  waiting  minds  of 


KLOPSTOCK,    WIELAND,    HERDER.  329 

his  contemporaries,  impregnating  them  with  a  life 
which  appeared,  and  still  appears,  in  forms  unnum- 
bered of  beauty  and  fragrance  ! 

Tranquil  lies  the  little  city  of  Weimar  in  the 
midst  of  its  quietly  sloping  hills.  On  the  hills 
waved  the  grain  harvests  of  July  when  I  ap- 
proached it.  From  the  station  I  went  down  into 
the  shade  of  the  streets,  among  the  modest,  vener- 
able buildings,  that  possess  more  interest  than  met- 
ropolitan temples  and  palaces,  because  they  have 
been  the  homes  and  haunts  of  genius.  Presently 
I  crossed  the  well-worn  pavement  about  a  plain, 
gray  church.  These  were  the  walls  which  once 
echoed  the  eloquence  of  Herder,  and  as  I  gazed  I 
thought  of  the  tall,  strong  figure  in  the  plain  black 
robe,  majestic  through  its  associations,  once  worn 
by  Luther,  and  established  as  the  garb  of  the  evan- 
gelical clergy  of  his  country,  towering  before  his 
congregation,  speaking  to  them  with  the  ardor  and 
authority  of  a  prophet.  To  help  my  fancy,  close 
at  hand  stood  Herder's  figure  in  bronze,  the  noble 
head  illumined,  the  brow  heavy  with  thought,  and 
beneath,  the  inscription,  carved  at  the  command  of 
his  ducal  patron,  —  "Light,  Love,  Life."  Mighty 
he  was  among  the  sons  of  men,  and  yet  there  was 
to  come  after  him  a  mightier,  treading  literally 
within  his  footsteps,  in  this  very  city  of  Weimar, 
while  he  erected  a  structure  compared  with  which 
even  the  fame  of  Herder  is  an  unpretentious  fane  ! 


CHAPTER  XII. 

GOTHE  THE  MAN. 

In  the  world's  literature  of  the  last  two  hundred 
years,  it  is  right,  I  think,  to  say  there  is  no  name 
so  great  aS  Gothe ;  in  many  ways  his  life  is  the 
most  interesting  of  the  eighteenth  and  nineteenth 
centuries.  The  family  from  which  he  sprung  can 
be  traced  from  the  middle  of  the  seventeenth 
century,  at  which  time  his  great-grandfather  lived 
as  a  farrier  at  Mansfeld,  in  Thuringia.  With  the 
generations  that  follow  comes  a  gradual  rise  from 
this  humble  condition.  The  son  of  the  farrier 
becomes  a  tailor,  removes  to  Frankfort-on-the- 
Main,  and,  by  a  fortunate  marriage  with  the 
landlady  of  a  popular  inn,  acquires  wealth.  The 
son  of  the  tailor  and  the  landlady,  Johann  Cas- 
par Gothe,  is  well  educated,  and  becomes  accom- 
plished by  travel  in  Italy.  He  reaches  the  dignity 
of  imperial  counsellor  among  the  burghers  of  the 
free  city,  and  marries,  at  length,  the  daughter  of 
the  chief  magistrate.  Here  at  last  we  have  the 
parents  of  the  poet.  The  father  is  cold  and  formal, 
but  upright  and  truth-loving.  From  him  Gothe  in- 
herits a  well-built  frame,  an  erect  carriage,  and 
measured  movement,  and  for  spiritual  qualities  a 
certain  orderliness  and  stoicism.  The  reader  of 


OOTHE    THE   MAN. 


331 


Gothe's  life  respects  the  figure  of  the  father  as  it  is 
painted  to  us,  but  is  not  attracted  by  it.  The  figure 
of  the  mother,  on  the  other  hand,  is  very  charming. 
At  her  marriage  she  is  a  lovely  girl,  simple,  hearty, 
joyous,  and  affectionate;  she  is  full  of  mother- wit, 
attractive  to  children,  and  with  many  accomplish- 
ments. She  has  health  like  iron.  Later  in  life  she 
becomes  large  and  stately.  She  has  always  a  circle 
of  young  girls  about  her,  enthusiastic  for  her,  and 
is  also  a  favorite  with  poets  and  princes.  There  are 
many  letters  of  hers  extant,  of  which  it  is  said, 
"  There  is  no  dead  word  among  them."1  While 
the  father  moves  upon  the  scene,  his  figure  always 
somewhat  stern  and  cool,  disappointed  at  his  son's 
choice  of  a  career,  never  cordially  recognizing  his 
success,  —  the  mother  is  always  a  most  amiable 
personality,  full  of  genius,  sunshine,  and  sympathy, 
even  in  the  deep  old  age  which  she  at  length  reaches  ; 
going  almost  hand  in  hand  with  her  great  son,  to 
whom  she  gave  birth  when  she  was  but  eighteen, 
until  he  at  last,  himself  an  old  man,  bids  her  a 
heart-broken  farewell. 

August  twenty-eighth,  1749,  was  the  date  of  the 
girl-mother's  memorable  travail.  The  air  was  full 
at  the  time  of  the  free,  bold  spirit  which,  develop- 
ing, was  destined,  before  the  end  of  the  century, 
to  produce  the  French  revolution.  Frankfort,  the 
centre  of  wide-extending  traffic,  was  an  appropriate 
birth-place  for  a  cosmopolitan  poet.  His  education, 
from  first  to  last,  was  of  a  kind  to  lift  him  above 


1  Hermann  Grimm :  Vorlesungen  iiber  Gothe. 


332  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

all  narrow  limits.  He  was  taught  especially  to  ad- 
mire Italy.  Going  from  the  station  at  Frankfort,  it 
is  but  a  short  walk  to  the  old  house  in  the  Hirsch- 
graben,  the  memorial  stone  in  whose  front  tells  the 
stranger  that  it  is  the  place  of  Gothe's  birth. 
Though  quite  different  from  the  fashion  of  our  time, 
it  has  a  look  most  solid  and  respectable,  standing 
close  upon  the  street,  the  upper  stories  projecting 
over  the  lower  in  a  manner  to  suggest  a  beetling 
Olympian  brow ;  the  many  windows  looking  upon 
the  passing  back  and  forth  of  the  human  tide,  as  if, 
like  the  child  it  gave  to  the  world,  it  was,  before  all 
that  moved  about  it,  wide-awake  and  impression- 
able. In  Gothe's  famous  autobiography,  written  in 
age,  the  great  man  reverts  affectionately  to  his 
earliest  childhood,  painting  with  lingering  and  vivid 
touch  his  child-life  here,  the  dimly  recalled  pranks 
of  infancy,  the  first  beginnings  to  which  memory 
goes  back,  the  quarrels  with  the  neighbors'  chil- 
dren, the  mother's  story-telling,  the  pageants  in  the 
street,  the  first  love.  Read  once  the  old  poet's 
bright  reminiscences,  and  you  will  long  to  see  the 
house  in  the  Hirsch-graben;  and  Frankfort's  quaint 
streets  and  squares. 

Gothe  was  a  precocious  boy.  Before  he  was  eight 
years  old  he  wrote  German,  French,  Italian,  Latin, 
and  Greek ;  many  of  his  boyish  exercises  are  still 
preserved.  He  early  became  the  favorite  of  emi- 
nent artists,  and  tried  ardently  to  become  a  painter. 
Perhaps  the  genius  of  no  human  being  has  come  so 
near  being  universal,  but  it  had  its  limitations,  and 
this  was  one  direction  where  they  made  themselves 


GOTHE    THE    MAN.  333 

felt.  As  regards  music  too,  though  he  faithfully 
tried,  his  accomplishments  were  but  slender ;  nor 
could  he  at  this  time,  or  later  in  his  career,  do  much 
with  mathematics,  —  more,  no  doubt,  through  defect 
of  inclination  than  power.  In  other  directions  his 
energy  and  success  were  extraordinary.  He  tells  us 
himself  minutely  the  circumstances  that  aided  his 
development;  his  father's  training,  faithful  but  un- 
sympathetic, his  mother's  cherishing,  and  a  thou- 
sand other  influences.  A  French  army  —  it  is  dur- 
ing the  Seven  Years'  War  —  occupies  the  city,  and 
his  father's  house  becomes  the  headquarters  of  offi- 
cers of  rank.  These  treat  the  boy  kindly,  and,  dur- 
ing the  time  of  their  stay,  surround  him  with  a 
French  atmosphere.  He  is  impressible  to  an  ex- 
traordinary degree,  —  "like  a  chameleon,  taking  a 
hue  from  every  object  under  which  it  lies."1  He 
learns  not  only  the  language,  but  acquires  a  French 
culture,  which,  however,  is  far  from  absorbing  him. 
He  studies  English  and  Hebrew  as  well,  and  in  spite 
of  all  this  occupation,  by  no  means  neglects  his 
body,  which  he  perfects  by  abundant  exercise.  Pre- 
cocious in  everything,  at  fifteen  comes  a  love  affair, 
the  first  of  a  long  series  running  through  his  life 
almost  to  his  eightieth  year. 

At  sixteen  it  is  felt  that  the  boy  needs  the  in- 
fluence of  a  broader  world,  and  he  is  therefore 
sent  to  Leipsig.  It  was  his  father's  wish  that  he 
should  be  a  lawyer,  but  he  soon  turned  in  disgust 
from  study  of  that  kind,  working  in  directions 

1  Lewes'  Life  of  Gothe. 


334  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

which  seemed  unpromising  enough  to  his  father 
and  the  professors  to  whom  he  had  been  committed. 
He  became  interested  in  medicine  and  botany.  He 
read  Moliere  and  Corneille,  and  gave  the  rein  to 
his  theatrical  taste.  We  find  him  performing  in  pri- 
vate theatricals,  appearing  as  Tellheim,  in  "  Minna 
von  Barnhelm  ;  "  he  even  wrote  dramas  of  his  own, 
two  of  which  are  included  in  his  works,  — the  first- 
lings of  his  genius.  At  this  time  he  was  profoundly 
moved  by  the  "  Laokoon  "  of  Lessing.  He  visited 
Dresden  to  see  the  great  pictures  of  the  gallery, 
pursued  faithfully  his  drawing,  and  began  also  to 
learn  engraving.  His  intercourse  with  society  made 
him  conscious  of  awkwardness.  Moreover,  there 
are  indications  enough  that  he  saw  a  wild  side  of 
life ;  but  dissipation  could  not  absorb  him.  With 
soul  as  sensitive  as  an  iodized  plate,  his  life  at 
Leipsig  does  not  pass  without  the  reception  of  an 
impress  from  the  figures  of  the  maidens  with  whom 
he  moves  in  society.  After  a  two  or  three  years' 
sojourn  he  returns  to  Frankfort,  really  vastly 
developed  by  experience  and  culture ;  though  not 
unnaturally,  his  father  considers  that  he  has  begun 
his  career  most  unpromisingly.  The  relations  of 
the  two  become  cold  and  unpleasant,  and  the  son 
falling  sick,  his  time  passes  drearily.  When  he  is 
once  more  able  to  work,  he  turns  his  attention  to 
alchemy,  reading  books  of  old  magicians,  which  in 
those  days,  when  as  yet  there  was  no  science  of 
chemistry,  still  had  authority.  Still  another  love 
affair,  —  ardent  and  transitory  as  those  that  had 
preceded.  At  length,  in  1770,  when  twenty  years 


GOTHE    THE   MAN.  335 

old,  he  is  sent  to  make  trial  of  the  university  at 
Strassburg,  as  before  at  Leipsig.  "  A  more  magnifi- 
cent youth  never  perhaps  entered  the  Strassburg 
gates.  Long  before  he  was  celebrated,  he  was 
likened  to  an  Apollo.  The  features  were  large 
and  liberally  cut,  as  in  the  fine,  sweeping  lines  of 
Greek  art.  The  brow  lofty  and  massive,  from  be- 
neath which  shone  large,  lustrous,  brown  eyes  of 
marvellous  beauty,  their  pupils  being  of  almost  un- 
exampled size.  The  slightly  aquiline  nose  was  large 
and  finely  cut ;  the  mouth  full,  with  a  short  arched 
lip,  very  expressive  ;  the  chin  and  jaw  boldly  pro- 
portioned, and  the  head  resting  on  a  fine,  muscular 
neck.  In  stature  he  was  rather  above  the  middle 
size  ;  although  not  really  tall,  he  had  the  aspect  of  a 
tall  man,  and  is  usually  so  described,  because  his 
presence  was  so  imposing.  His  frame  was  strong 
and  muscular,  yet  sensitive  ;  he  excelled  in  all  active 
sports." 1 

At  Strassburg  he  was  still  the  chameleon, —  singu- 
larly receptive  of  every  impression.  Falling  into 
the  society  of  students  of  medicine,  he  at  once 
catches  their  interest ;  electricity  and  optics  also  at- 
tract him.  His  intellectual  activity  was,  as  always, 
extraordinary,  and  yet  he  found  time  for  much  con- 
tact with  life,  where  his  course  was  often  sufficiently 
unconventional,  though  it  would  be  harsh  to  call  it 
vicious.  His  force  of  character  is  in  many  ways 
apparent.  To  conquer  undue  sensitiveness,  he  com- 
pels himself  to  endure  the  dissecting-room  ;  to  sub- 

1  Lewes. 


338  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

due  a  tendency  to  giddiness,  he  stands  for  long  in- 
tervals upon  the  narrow  space  at  the  summit  of  the 
Strassburg  spire.  Marie  Antoinette  passes  through 
the  town,  a  lovely  bride  of  fifteen,  on  her  way  to 
her  career  of  calamity  as  queen  of  France.  Strass- 
burg receives  her  with  much  pomp,  for  there  she 
first  sets  foot  upon  the  soil  she  is  to  rule.  But 
among  the  rich  hangings  of  her  apartment  is  tapes- 
try chosen  with  bad  taste,  representing  classic  hero- 
ines sadly  famous  through  unhappy  marriages.  The 
handsome  young  Gothe,  regarding  it  as  ominous, 
storms  against  the  inappropriateness  in  a  way  to  at- 
tract much  attention ;  as  if  he  foresaw  the  blood 
and  terror  in  which  the  life  of  the  princess  was  at 
last  to  go  down.  He  rode  and  fenced;  he  made 
himself  accomplished  in  dancing ;  and  in  connection 
with  this  had  a  curious  experience  with  the  pretty 
daughters  of  the  dancing-master,  finely  told  in  his 
old  age  in  the  autobiography,  for  which  I  long  to 
make  room,  but  must  deny  myself. 

The  principal  love  idyl,  however,  of  the  Strass- 
burg life  is  the  story  of  his  connection  with  Fred- 
erika,  —  among  Gothe' s  innumerable  affairs  of  the 
heart,  perhaps  the  most  charming.  Still,  from  the 
high  platform  of  the  minster,  eighteen  miles  away 
in  the  beautiful  Alsatian  landscape,  may  be  seen  the 
spire  of  Sesenheim,  of  which  the  father  of  Fred- 
erika  was  pastor.  She  was  a  girl  of  sixteen,  every 
way  lovely,  whom  Gothe  met  during  an  excursion 
from  the  city  with  a  fellow-student.  The  story  is 
too  long  to  tell.  The  passion  of  the  young  poet  was 
intense,  and  as  warmly  returned  ;  but,  as  was  again 


GOTHE    THE    MAN.  337 

and  again  the  case  with  him,  it  subsided,  enriching 
his  experience,  coloring  magnificently  the  work 
which  he  afterward  gave  to  the  world,  though  so 
transitory.  Frederika  had  a  dangerous  sickness  af- 
ter Gothe's  desertion.  Sh6  was  the  first  girl  whose 
heart  he  broke,  and  to  have  broken  the  heart  of 
such  a  girl — say  even  his  enthusiastic  defenders — 
was  an  inhumanity,  although  we  can  pardon  him 
much.1  The  pastor's  daughter  lived  forward,  pa- 
tient in  her  maidenhood,  sought  again  and  again, 
but  ever  after  unapproachable.  "The  soul  which 
has  on<:e  loved  Gothe,"  she  was  accustomed  to  say, 
"  can  love  no  one  else."  The  youth  who  crossed 
her  path  only  to  bring  her  torture,  bestowed  upon 
her,  as  we  shall  hereafter  see,  such  an  immortality 
as  has  fallen  to  the  lot  of  few  among  the  daughters 
of  men. 

Of  the  year  or  so  that  Gothe  spent  at  Strassburg, 
there  are  three  influences  under  which  he  came  that 
are  reckoned  as  important.  The  idyl  of  which 
Frederika  is  heroine  is  one  ;  the  second  is  that  ex- 
ercised upon  him  by  the  great  Herder,  the  first 
man  whom  Gothe  had  ever  met  whom  he  could  call 
master.  Herder  was  a  few  years  Gothe's  senior, 
and  came  to  Strassburg  during  Gothe's  student  life, 
hoping  to  be  cured  of  a  disease  of  the  eyes  from 
which  he  suffered.  In  their  intercourse  Herder 
showed  all  his  power,  but  was  often  characteris- 
tically overbearing  and  sarcastic  ;  Gothe  was  amiable 
and  tolerant.  Herder  liked  Gothe,  though  he  did 


1  Hermann  Grimm. 
B 


338  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

not  recognize  his  genius  ;  Gothe,  on  the  other  hand, 
was  powerfully  affected.  Up  to  the  interviews  with 
Herder,  it  had  been  all  uncertain  whither  the  flood 
would  pour  itself.  Was  the  sublime  energy  to  be  felt 
in  the  world  of  affairs,  or  books,  —  in  art,  science, 
or  literature?  For  all,  by  turns,  the  many-sided 
youth  had  shown  a  preference.  Henceforth,  how- 
ever, the  path  was  determined.  Gothe  turned  pas- 
sionately to  the  study  of  the  Bible,  Homer,  Os- 
sian,  above  all  Shakespeare,  gathering  in  this  way 
strength  for  the  sublime  leap  that  was  to  carry  him 
to  the  summits. 

The  third  influence  under  which  Gothe  came  was 
that  exercised  upon  him  by  the  beauty  of  the 
cathedral.  We  cannot  feel  the  sway  of  Herder's 
spirit,  and  for  two  generations  the  charm  of  Fred- 
erika's  presence  has  been  hidden  in  the  grave.  The 
fascination  of  the  cathedral,  however,  is  a  lasting 
possession,  which  only  deepens  as  the  years  go  by. 
In  the  same  month  of  April,  just  one  hundred  years 
after  Gothe  entered  the  Strassburg  gates,  the  course 
of  my  pilgrimage  carried  me  thither.  The  old  city, 
as  has  been  seen,  is  perhaps  the  birthplace  of  Ger- 
man prose  ;  it  cradled  the  art  of  printing  ;  the  purest 
and  noblest  eloquence  of  the  Middle  Ages  was  heard 
within  its  squares  and  churches.  In  these  associa- 
tions there  is  plenty  to  thrill  the  heart ;  but  how 
deep  grows  the  interest  of  the  thoughtful  traveller 
when  he  stands  before  the  cathedral's  amazing  front, 
or  is  subdued  by  the  glorified  light  of  the  interior, 
when  he  climbs  up  through  the  meshes  of  the  pet- 
rified net-work  to  the  lofty  platform,  or  from  a  dis- 


GOTHE    THE   MAN.  339 

tance  beholds  upon  the  horizon  the  spectral  spire, 
penetrated  everywhere  by  the  light,  to  think  that 
he  is  beneath  the  sway  of  a  power  that  wrought  so 
upon  the  culture  of  Germany's  greatest  mind  ! 

While  Gothe  had  been  maturing,  in  the  thought- 
ful minds  of  Germany  and  France  revolutionary  in- 
fluences were  more  and  more  felt.  It  was  now  the 
period  known  from  the  title  of  a  play — in  those  days 
famous  —  as  that  of  the  "  Storm  and  Stress."1  A 
war  against  the  conventional,  a  liking  for  outlawry, 
a  passion  for  the  tempestuous,  characterized  the 
young  writers  who  were  giving  tone  to  the  period. 
Gothe  was  possessed  with  it  to  the  full,  —  so  wild 
in  his  manners  that  his  friends  called  him  the  bear 
and  the  wolf.  He  rambled  in  the  open  air  until  he 
almost  lived  upon  the  road.  He  was  perfect  in  the 
sword  exercise,  and  at  home  on  the  back  of  a  gal- 
loping horse  ;  but  he  found  for  his  stormy  moods 
no  such  outlet  as  the  exercise  of  skating.  "  He  was 
never  tired.  All  day  long,  and  deep  into  the  night, 
he  was  to  be  seen  whirling  along,  and  as  the  full 
moon  rose  above  the  clouds  over  the  wide,  noc- 
turnal fields  of  ice,  and  the  night  wind  rushed  at 
his  face,  and  the  echo  of  his  movements  came  with 
a  ghostly  sound  upon  his  ear,  he  seemed  to  be  of 
Ossian's  world."2  Stand  on  the  bridge  of  Frank- 
fort ;  there  is  the  statue  of  Karl  the  Great,  of  which 
I  have  spoken,  the  ledges  in  the  stream  below 
thrusting  themselves  up,  as  they  did  a  thousand 


1  Sturm  und  Drang. 
1  Lewes. 


340  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

years  ago,  that  they  might  be  stepping-stones  for  his 
Franks,  fording  the  broad  Main  on  their  way  to 
conquest.  You  are  almost  in  the  shadow  of  the 
dark  spire  beneath  which,  during  the  ages,  his  im- 
perial successors  have  assumed  the  purple.  There 
is  another  sovereign  figure  that  one  may  well  think 
of  here, — the  king  in  the  realm  of  German  letters. 
The  February  day  that  I  stood  on  the  Frankfort 
bridge  the  Main  was  sheeted  with  ice,  and  reverber- 
ating to  the  thrust  of  the  skaters  as  in  the  day  when 
the  young  Gothe  found  in  the  sport  a  vent  for  his 
supreme  vitality.  How  fine  is  this  account  by  his 
mother:  "There  skated  rny  son,  like  an  arrow, 
among  the  groups.  The  wind  had  reddened  his 
cheeks,  and  blown  the  powder  out  of  his  brown  hair. 
When  he  saw  iny  cloak  of  crimson  and  fur,  which 
had  a  long  train  and  was  closed  in  front  by  golden 
clasps,  he  came  toward  our  carriage  and  smiled 
coaxingly  at  me.  I  took  it  off;  he  put  it  on,  threw 
the  train  over  his  arm,  and  away  he  went  over  the 
ice  like  a  son  of  the  gods.  I  clapped  my  hands  for 
joy.  Never  shall  I  forget  him  as  he  darted  out  from 
under  one  arch  of  the  bridge  and  in  again  under 
another,  the  wind  carrying  the  train  behind  him  as 
he  flew." 

He  stood  now  on  the  threshold  of  his  first  great 
success.  He  had  already  written  —  though  it  was 
not  given  to  the  world  until  later  —  his  play  "  Gotz 
von  Berlichingen,"  founding  the  piece  upon  the 
chronicle  of  the  old  robber-knight  of  that  name,  the 
representative  of  a  class  whose  quarrels  and  lawless 
spirit  threw  their  time  into  confusion.  There  are, 


GOTHE    THE   MAN.  341 

however,  many  picturesque  traits  in  their  story,  and 
redeeming  things  peep  through  in  the  characters  of 
some  among  them.  Sir  Walter  Scott  began  his  ca- 
reer as  a  writer  by  a  translation  of  Gotz,  turning 
then  his  attention  to  the  mediaeval  romance  of  his 
own  land,  to  make  immortal  similar  types.  We  can 
understand  that  in  a  "  storm  and  stress"  period 
such  pieces  would  be  full  of  attraction ;  but  the 
world  knew  Gothe  first  in  another  way  than  as  the 
author  of  Gotz. 

In  the  little  town  of  Wetzlar,  where  his  fate 
placed  him  for  a  brief  period,  the  susceptible  genius 
became  attracted  toward  an  amiable  girl,  Charlotte 
Buff,  who  lived  in  her  father's  household,  taking 
care  of  her  younger  brothers  and  sisters.  To  know 
such  a  person  was,  for  Gothe,  at  once  to  love,  and 
Lotte  took  her  place  on  the  list  —  already  becoming 
long  —  of  his  flames.  She,  however,  was  betrothed 
to  another,  a  manly  fellow,  Kestner,  of  whose  char- 
acter we  have  ample  means  of  judging  through  his 
letters.  Gothe' s  relation  to  the  two  was  a  singular 
one.  For  Kestner  his  friendship  was  warm  ;  for 
Lotte  his  love  extreme.  It  was  acknowledged  and 
talked  about  with  the  utmost  freedom  among  the 
three,  during  the  months  of  Gothe's  stay.  At  the 
same  time  there  also  lived  at  Wetzlar  a  young  stu- 
dent whom  Gothe  had  formerly  known  at  Leipsig, 
who  was  also  suffering  through  hopeless  love  for 
a  woman  already  married.  Gothe  at  length  was 
forced  to  leave  Wetzlar,  and  shortly  after,  the  young 
student,  in  a  fit  of  despair,  shot  himself.  Gothe, 
who  had  already  shown  such  strong  impressibility, 


342  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

was  now  to  show  that  he  possessed  as  well  a  power 
for  expression  such  as  no  mortal  has  ever  surpassed. 
He  was  a  self-registering  thermometer,  and  the  fifty 
volumes  he  left  at  death  are,  to  a  large  extent, 
the  minute  record  of  the  transitions  of  the  ex- 
quisitely sensitive  globule,  his  soul,  as  it  sank  and 
rose  in  the  heat  and  cooling  of  its  passion,  along  the 
scale  of  possible  movement.  The  record  of  the  Wetz- 
lar  experience  is  a  memorable  one.  The  famous 
"  Sorrows  of  Werther,"  — Gothe  wrote  it  in  a  few 
weeks,  combining  in  a  romance  his  own  experience 
and  that  of  his  friend.  The  story  details,  with  ex- 
cessive elaboration,  the  passion  of  a  youth  for  a 
woman  betrothed  to  another,  who  at  length  shoots 
himself  in  despair.  It  will  be  referred  to  again.  For 
the  present  it  is  enough  to  say  that,  in  our  age,  the 
experience  which  led  to  the  book  and  the  pages  them- 
selves can  hardly  be  treated  seriously  ;  for  such  sen- 
timental extravagance  the  world  has  now  nothing 
but  ridicule.  Gothe  himself,  long  before  the  end  of 
his  career,  regarded  it  as  absurd.  A  hundred  years 
ago,  however,  its  appearance  was  one  of  the  great 
events  of  the  century.  Nothing  ever  hit  more  pre- 
cisely the  taste  of  an  age.  It  was  read  by  high  and 
low  ;  it  spread  to  foreign  lands,  even  to  the  confines 
of  the  earth  ;  it  was  the  favorite  of  chambermaids  ; 
Napoleon  took  it  with  him  to  Egypt,  and  read  it 
seven  times.  At  one  step  the  youth  of  twenty-five 
had  become  the  favorite  writer  of  Europe. 

Scarcely  had  the  curtain  fallen  for  Gothe  on  the 
experience  of  Wetzlar  when,  Lotte  being  already 
forgotten,  a  new  intimacy  with  a  woman  came  to 


GOTHE    THE   MAN.  343 

pass,  —  Maximiliane,  the  wife  of  an  Italian  of  Frank- 
fort, and  mother,  afterwards,  of  the  singular  figure 
who  appears  with  some  prominence  in  connection 
with  Gothe's  later  career,  Bettine.  Although  the 
husband  became  very  jealous,  the  intimacy  seems  to 
have  been  innocent,  and  was  of  a  kind  usual  enough 
in  those  days,  though  now  it  would  be  looked  on  as 
reprehensible.  It  was  fleeting,  like  the  rest ;  and  in 
quick  succession  just  after  we  find  him  involved  in 
two  other  ardent  flirtations,  the  most  noticeable 
one,  that  with  "  Lili,"  —  Anna  Elizabeth  Schone- 
mann,  —  daughter  of  a  Frankfort  banker,  for  whom 
Gothe  told  Eckermann,  the  Boswell  who  recorded 
the  poet's  later  conversations,  he  had  felt  a  truer  love 
than  for  any  one  else.  Gothe  needed  only  to  feel 
that  he  had  vanquished  a  heart  in  order  to  consider 
that  the  end  was  reached,  and  must  be  forsaken.1 
Betrothed  in  April,  in  May  everything  was  over. 
Lili's  friends  opposed,  Lili  submitting,  as  Gothe 
thought,  too  easily.  His  passion  was  cooling,  he 
spoke  decidedly,  and  they  separated  without  too 
many  tears.  She  was  a  fresh,  lively,  open-hearted 
girl  of  sixteen,  with  nothing  of  Frederika's  tender- 
ness, or  the  sensitiveness  of  Lotte.  Among  the 
thousand  graphic  pictures  of  the  autobiography,  one 
of  the  most  vivid  is  of  Gothe  standing  in  the  street 
before  the  banker's  house,  in  the  evening.  Through 
the  window  he  sees  Lili  at  the  piano,  in  the  midst  of 
a  party  of  friends,  whom  she  entertains  with  a  song 
written  for  her  by  the  lover  from  whom  she  was  just 


1  Hermann  Grimm. 


344  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

'separated,  "  Why  dost  thou  draw  me  irresistibly  ?  "  * 
That  his  just-abandoned  bride  entertained  an  in- 
different company  by  singing  his  song  vexed  him, 
but  held  him  fast  at  the  same  time.  Her  unbroken 
self-centredness  exercised  a  mighty  charm  upon  him, 
and  he  was  obliged  to  summon  the  whole  force  of 
his  character  to  prevent  himself  from  going  in. 
Gothe  is  now  a  mature  man.  The  capricious  love- 
making,  of  which  there  has  already  been  so  much 
mention,  we  can  smile  at  and  pardon  in  a  callow 
youth  ;  more  sobriety,  however,  seems  proper  now, 
and  in  spite  of  the  apologies  of  admirers,  we  cannot 
help  reading  impatiently,  as  one  fickle  attachment 
follows  another,  and  feeling  that  the  dignity  of  a 
character  to  which  we  would  fain  do  reverence  is 
much  impaired.  They  cannot  be  passed  over  un- 
noticed, for  his  work,  as  has  been  said,  was  to  a 
large  extent  a  record  of  his  emotions,  of  the  changes 
between  coolness  and  fever-heat,  as  his  mercurial 
spirit  sunk  and  rose.  Of  the  passions  just  men- 
tioned, as  of  the  others,  the  careful  reader  of  Gothe 
can  find  the  record  that  corresponds.  Charlotte, 
without  change  of  name,  becomes  the  heroine  of 
"  Werther  :"  from  the  love  for  Lili  comes  the  charm- 
ing little  poem  of  "  Erwin  and  Elmire  ;"  Frederika 
becomes  the  Gretchen  of  "  Faust."  2  But  just  here 
begins  a  friendship  which  was  thoroughly  manly, 
and  was  to  have  most  important  results.  At  Mainz 
he  meets  a  youth  of  noble  birth,  a  few  years  younger 


1  "  Warumziehst  du  mich  unwiderstehlich  ? ' 
1  Grimm. 


GO  THE    THE   MAN.  345 

than  himself,  who  had  come  to  feel  for  him  a  warm 
enthusiasm,  —  Karl  August,  duke  of  Weimar,  who 
invites  him  to  live  henceforth  at  the  capital  of  his 
state.  After  a  tour  in  Switzerland,  Gothe,  at  the 
age  of  twenty-six,  accepts  the  invitation,  going  to 
Weimar  for  a  sojourn  of  nearly  sixty  years,  his 
whole  remaining  life,  in  relations  creditable  to  his 
patron  and  himself. 

Among  the  hundreds  of  states  into  which  poor 
Germany  was  in  the  last  century  divided,  Weimar 
occupied  an  intermediate  place,  not  standing  in  the 
rank  of  the  larger  ones,  — like  Austria  and  Prussia,  — 
nor  yet  among  the  most  insignificant  in  extent  and 
population,  but  nearer  the  latter  than  the  former. 
The  city  itself  contained  seven  thousand  inhabi- 
tants ;  the  outlying  duchy  was  scarcely  more  than 
a  respectable  county,  but  because  it  became  the 
home  of  Gothe  it  was  more  famous  than  many 
greater  lands.  At  Gothe's  coming,  the  city  walls 
were  standing,  with  battlement,  portcullis,  and  all 
mediaeval  circumstance.  The  beautiful  park  which 
the  visitor  now  finds  was  not  then  in  existence ; 
it  owes  its  creation  mainly  indeed  to  Gothe,  and 
is  the  most  remarkable  feature  of  Weimar.  It  be- 
gins southward  from  the  palace,  the  land  stretch- 
ing miles  away  without  a  barrier,  magnificent 
plain  and  slope,  dotted  with  trees  as  fine.  Upon 
one  of  its  paths  stands  the  "garden  house,"  the 
residence  of  Gothe  for  years,  and  not  far  off 
the  house  of  bark,  of  which  he  was  the  archi- 
tect, in  which  the  unconventional  duke  spent  much 
of  his  time,  throwing  off  restraint  and  appearing 


346  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

as  the  child  of  nature.  Karl  August  was  by  no 
means  an  ordinary  figure.  He  was  brusque  and 
soldierly  ;  his  tastes  were  homely,  sometimes  coarse  ; 
he  mingled  freely  with  the  people,  putting  on  their 
dress  and  dancing  with  the  peasant  girls  at  the 
country  festivals.  He  was  a  bold  rider,  sought 
excitement  in  wine,  and  was  often  wilful.  With 
all  his  faults,  he  was  in  many  ways  an  admirable 
character.  His  judgment  of  men  and  things  was 
sound  and  keen  ;  his  aims  were  really  high.  Only 
a  remarkable  character  could  have  had  the  ambition 
he  possessed  to  make  his  court  intellectually  illus- 
trious. He  invited  thither  the  most  famous  minds 
of  Germany,  —  Gothe,  Schiller,  Herder,  Wieland, 
and  others  of  note.  At  the  university  of  Jena, 
only  a  few  miles  distant,  which  was  under  his 
patronage,  were  men  hardly  less  famous,  —  Gries- 
bach,  Fichte,  Schelling,  Hegel,  the  brothers  Schle- 
gel,  the  brothers  Humboldt.  Many  of  them  he 
kept  at  his  side  in  life-long  intercourse  and  attach- 
ment. The  relation  between  Gothe  and  Karl 
August  was  beautiful  and  manly.  There  was  never 
an  ignoble  suspicion  between  them,  and  but  one 
transitory  quarrel.  The  poet  stood  at  the  side  of 
the  duke  as  a  faithful  mentor. 

Still  more  interesting  than  the  duke  was  his 
mother,  the  Duchess  Amalie,  who  is  described  as 
the  soul  of  the  Weimar  life.  She  was  a  niece  of 
Frederick  the  Great,  and  had  much  of  his  power. 
She  was  left  a  widow  with  two  sons  before  she  was 
twenty,  and  at  Gothe' s  coming  was  still  young. 
Her  features  were  full  of  expression ;  in  particular, 


QOTHE    THE   MAN.  347 

her  eye  had  the  same  remarkable  brightness  to  be 
seen  in  that  of  her  uncle,  whom  she  more  and  more 
resembled  as  her  life  advanced.  She  was  well  edu- 
cated, and  had  agreeable  social  qualities.  What 
was  more  remarkable,  she  had  a  manly  firmness 
and  sense  in  matters  of  business  and  government. 
As  a  regent,  she  managed  with  real  ability  the 
affairs  of  her  state  in  the  difficult  time  of  the  Seven 
Years'  War.  Like  a  little  shallop  caught  in  the 
midst  of  fighting  men-of-war,  the  duchy  lay  in  the 
very  track  of  the  great  contending  powers.  Austria, 
Prussia,  Saxony  were  right  at  hand,  and  Weimar 
lay  precisely  in  the  track  of  France.  She  managed 
all,  however,  with  great  spirit  and  skill.  As  to 
Gothe,  she  saw  at  once  the  wisdom  of  inviting  him 
to  Weimar,  and  it  is  perhaps  right  to  say  it  was 
mainly  through  her  that  he  remained. 

In  estimating  the  life  of  Gothe  at  Weimar,  we 
must  bear  in  mind  the  manners  of  the  land  and 
time,  which  permitted  much  that  in  better  regulated 
modern  society  would  be  regarded  as  improper,  — 
even  sinful.  He  has  been  reproached  with  living  as 
a  courtier  and  dependent,  and  a  contrast  easily  sug- 
gests itself  between  him  and  Lessing,  who  turned 
his  back  upon  princes  in  such  proud  independence. 
To  me,  indeed,  Gothe  is  far  enough  from  seeming 
possessed  of  such  moral  grandeur  of  character  as 
his  great  precursor,  yet  let  us  try  to  do  him  strict 
justice.  To  live  from  the  proceeds  of  authorship 
was,  in  those  days,  impossible  ;  dependence  upon  a 
prince  was  not  deemed  unmanly,  even  by  the 
proudest.  The  pure  Schiller  accepted  the  duke's 


348  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

pension,  and  Lessing  himself  was  at  last  an  attach^ 
of  the  court  of  Brunswick,  though  he  took  care  to 
guard  well  his  freedom.  In  return  for  his  pension, 
which  for  long  was  only  about  one  thousand  dollars, 
Gothe  rendered  most  ample  service.  He  was  always 
the  adviser  of  his  prince,  and  at  length  the  president 
of  his  council.  He  was  far  enough  from  being  the 
poet  lost  in  dreams,  or  the  retired  author  whom  no 
one  might  disturb.  His  literary  work  was  really  a 
side  occupation.  He  was  busy  constantly  with  mat- 
ters of  law  and  administration,  patient  even  with 
the  pettiest  details.  As  first  official  of  the  duke- 
dom,—  which  he  soon  became,  —  the  discharge  of 
the  responsibilities  of  his  great  position  seemed  to 
his  contemporaries  the  peculiar  aim  of  his  life.  His 
design  in  going  to  Weimar  was  to  devote  his  whole 
power  to  the  service  of  the  duke  and  his  people  ;  this 
he  fulfilled,  giving  only  hours  of  leisure  to  literary 
work.1  To  the  end  of  his  life  he  was  busy  with 
plans  of  public  benefit,  trying  in  many  ways  to 
alleviate  the  condition  of  the  people.2  He  opened 
mines ;  we  read  of  his  instituting  a  fire  department, 
and  exposing  himself  in  fighting  a  conflagration 
until  his  eye-brows  became  singed.  He  managed 
the  finances,  was  constantly  active  for  the  higher 
culture  of  the  people,  and  directed  the  affairs  of 
war  as  well  as  of  peace.  With  his  extraordinary 
vigor,  these  public  employments  were  far  enough 
from  absorbing  him.  He  turned,  unwearied,  from 


1  Grimm. 

1  Schafer:  Das  Leben  Gothes. 


GOTHE    THE   MAN.  349 

them  to  literary  production,  and  here  too  he  was 
heartily  supported  by  his  noble  patron.  In  his  re- 
lations with  the  court  he  was  not  a  sycophant ;  he 
spoke  his  mind  freely,  and  his  intercourse  with  the 
duke  was  interrupted  once,  at  least,  by  a  quarrel. 
The  bond  between  them  was  that  of  hearty  friend- 
ship, in  which  the  frank  duke  often  appears  as  much 
the  dependant  as  Gothe  himself.1 

Many  pictures  of  the  life  at  Weimar  are  given, 
often  picturesque  and  charming,  not  always  edi- 
fying. At  his  coming  he  fascinated  all  by  his  un- 
constrained ways  and  splendid  talents.  In  conver- 
sation he  startled  with  paradoxes  ;  the  next  moment 
was  waltzing  round  the  room,  with  mad  antics  that 
made  beholders  roar  with  laughter.  Wieland  — 
who  had  been  sharply  satirized  by  Gothe,  and  saw 
himself  superseded  by  him,  not  only  in  the  world 
of  Weimar,  but  in  Germany  at  large— -admired 
him  with  a  generosity  which  does  the  highest  credit 
to  his  character,  and  no  tribute  is  more  graceful 
than  his.  "  How  I  loved  the  magnificent  youth,  as 
I  sat  beside  him  at  table  !  Since  that  morning  my 
soul  is  as  full  of  Gothe  as  a  dew-drop  of  the  morii- 
ing  sun."  "  I  catch  strange  glimpses  of  him,  now 
darting  across  the  ice ;  now,  with  locks  flowing 
over  his  shoulders,  whirling  around  in  a  mad 
Bacchante  waltz ;  finally,  standing  in  the  market- 
place with  the  duke,  by  the  hour  together,  crack- 
ing huge  sledge- whips  for  a  wager." 3  Here  too  is  a 


1  Godeke. 
*  Lewes. 


350  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

story  told  by  Gleim,  a  poet  justly  famous — if  for 
nothing  else  —  for  spirited  soldiers'  songs  during 
the  Seven  Years'  War,  and  who  protected  and  en- 
couraged younger  poets  of  his  time,  showing  in  his 
fostering  more  kindness  of  heart  than  discernment : 
'*  Soon  after  Gothe  had  written  *  Werther,'  I  came 
to  Weimar,  and  wished  to  know  him.  I  had  brought 
with  me  the  last  literary  novelty,  and  read  here  and 
there  a  poem  in  the  company  in  which  I  passed  the 
evening.  While  I  was  reading,  a  young  man, 
booted  and  spurred,  in  a  short  green  shooting- 
jacket,  thrown  open,  came  in  and  mingled  with  the 
audience.  I  had  scarcely  remarked  his  entrance. 
He  sat  down  opposite  to  me  and  listened  attentively. 
I  scarcely  know  what  it  was  about  him  that  par- 
ticularly struck  me,  except  a  pair  of  brilliant,  dark, 
Italian  eyes.  But  it  was  decreed  I  should  know 
more  of  him.  During  a  short  pause,  in  which  some 
gentlemen  and  ladies  were  discussing  the  merits  of 
the  pieces  I  had  read,  the  gallant  young  sportsman  — 
for  such  I  took  him  to  be  —  rose  from  his  chair, 
and,  bowing  with  a  most  courteous  and  ingratiating 
air  to  me,  offered  to  relieve  me  from  time  to  time 
in  reading,  lest  I  should  be  tired.  I  could  do  no 
less  than  accept  so  polite  an  offer,  and  immediately 
handed  him  the  book.  But  oh  !  Apollo,  and  all  ye 
Muses,  what  was  I  then  to  hear.  At  first,  indeed, 
things  went  on  smoothly  enough.  All  at  once, 
however,  it  was  as  if  some  wild  and  wanton  spirit 
had  taken  possession  of  the  young  reader,  and  I 
thought  I  saw  the  wild  huntsman  bodily  before  me. 
He  read  poems  that  had  no  existence  in  the  book, 


GOTHE    THE   MAN. 


351 


broke  out  into  all  possible  moods  and  dialects. 
Hexameters,  iambics,  doggerel,  one  after  another, 
or  blended  in  strange  confusion,  came  tumbling  out 
in  torrents.  Amidst  all  came  magnificent  thoughts. 
He  put  everybody  present  out  of  countenance  in 
one  way  or  another.  In  a  little  fable  composed  ex- 
tempore, in  doggerel  verses,  he  likened  me,  wittily 
enough,  to  a  worthy  and  most  enduring  turkey-hen 
who  sets  on  a  great  heap  of  eggs,  of  her  own  and 
other  people,  and  hatches  them  with  infinite 
patience,  but  to  whom  it  happens  sometimes  to 
have  a  chalk  egg  put  under  her  instead  of  a  real 
one.  *  That  is  either  Gothe  or  the  devil,'  cried  I 
to  Wieland,  who  sat  opposite  me.  *  Both,'  he  re- 
plied. *  He  has  the  devil  in  him  to-night,  and  at 
such  times  he  is  like  a  wanton  colt  that  flings  out 
before  and  behind,  and  you  will  do  well  not  to  go 
too  near  him.'  ' 

One  more  anecdote  of  his  wild  time.  He  was  fond 
of  bathing,  and  often  bathed  at  night.  One  evening, 
when  the  moon  was  calmly  shining,  a  peasant,  re- 
turning home,  was  crossing  a  bridge  near  by  ;  Gothe 
espied  him,  and,  moved  with  the  spirit  of  mischief 
which  so  often  startled  Weimar,  uttered  wild  sepul- 
chral tones,  raised  himself  half  out  of  water,  ducked 
under,  and  reappeared,  howling,  to  the  horror  of  the 
frightened  peasant,  who,  hearing  such  sounds  issue 
from  a  figure  with  long,  floating  hair,  fled  as  if  a  le- 
gion of  demons  were  at  hand.1  To  this  day  there 
remains  an  ineradicable  belief  in  the  existence  of 


1  Lewes. 


352  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

the  water-sprite  who   howls   among  the  waters   of 
the  Ilm. 

These  stones  of  the  ebullitions  of  his  early  man- 
hood are  interesting  as  evidences  of  his  joyous, 
abounding  vitality.  Karl  August,  who  had  associ- 
ated the  poet  so  closely  to  himself,  was  only  nine- 
teen years  old,  full  of  the  exuberance  of  healthy 
youth.  Gothe  had  not  advanced  so  far  toward  ma- 
turity that  he  could  not  enter  with  the  fullest  zest 
into  the  escapades  of  his  patron.  The  severe  Klop- 
stock,  hearing  of  the  wild  life  which  went  forward 
at  Weimar,  wrote  Gothe  a  censorious  letter, —  the 
cause  of  a  breach  between  the  two,  which  was  never 
fully  healed.  The  fault-finding  of  the  old  poet  seems 
to  have  been  unreasonable.  The  gaiety  was  inno- 
cent, though  perhaps  sometimes  over-rough.  At  any 
rate,  soon  came  a  sober  time  ;  but  whether  merry  or 
sober,  Gothe's  restless  mind  was  always  at  work,  its 
production  reflecting  faithfully  the  mood  of  the 
hour.  We  have  to  regard  him  as  one  who,  beyond 
all  the  sons  of  men,  experienced  delicate  emotions, 
having  at  the  same  time  the  gift  of  uttering  them 
in  poetic  outbursts.  It  would  be  idle,  therefore,  to 
tell  the  story  of  his  life  without  recording  the  stir- 
rings of  his  soul, — stirrings,  as  we  have  already  seen, 
not  always  innocent  or  dignified,  although  the  out- 
come to  the  world  was  so  often  a  transcendent  work 
of  genius. 

Among  the  fascinating  women  of  the  court  of 
Weimar  was  Charlotte  von  Stein,  wife  of  the  master 
of  the  horse,  a  woman  older  than  Gothe  by  some 
years,  but  of  extraordinary  fascinations,  and  fitted 


GOTHE    THE   MAN.  353 

by  her  genius  to  sympathize  with  Gothe  in  all  his 
strivings.  She  touched  his  heart  to  its  depths,  this 
time  in  no  transitory  fashion,  for  his  love  lasted  ten 
years,  the  sensitive  globule  in  his  breast  meantime 
recording  its  elevation  in  outpourings  full  of  all  pos- 
sible ardor.  It  was  another  world  than  ours.  The 
men  and  women  who  moved  in  the  society  of  Wei- 
mar treated  with  little  respect  many  social  conven- 
tionalities, and  not  infrequently  infringed  upon  the 
moral  law.  Jean  Paul  even  went  so  far  as  to  say  of 
Weimar,  "  Marriages  count  for  nothing  ;  "  and  one 
cannot  read  far  in  the  recitals  without  coming  upon 
evidences  of  a  freedom  of  conduct  quite  at  variance 
with  modern  notions  of  propriety.1  Gothe' s  passion 
for  Charlotte  von  Stein  was  the  most  important  of 
which  he  was  ever  the  subject,  and  has  been  vari- 
ously judged.  His  latest  German  biographer2  re- 
marks that  Gothe' s  passions,  before  his  Weimar  life, 
have  all  something  in  common.  "  He  meets  a  sim- 
ple, lovely  girl ;  his  heart  needs  a  goddess ;  the 
whole  fire  of  his  own  nature  streams  toward  him 
from  the  glances  of  this  girl,  whose  eyes,  were  they 
ever  so  beautiful,  without  Gothe  himself  would 
never  have  had  this  attractive  power.  Every  time 
there  is  the  same  process.  After  a  time  of  bloom 
comes  a  truce,  then  light  ennui,  then  withering,  then 
all  is  gone.  In  Charlotte  von  Stein,  Gothe  met,  for 
the  first  time,  a  power  that  had  its  own  fire.  His 
letters  to  her  are  among  the  most  beautiful  and 


Rudolph  Gottschall :  Der  Musenhof  zu  Weimar. 
H.  Grimm. 

23 


354  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

touching  memorials  in  all  literature.  There  is 
abundant  material  for  judging  of  their  relation. 
It  is  not  possible  to  characterize  it  otherwise  than  as 
a  devoted  friendship  of  the  noblest  sort.  She  was 
somewhat  cool  in  temperament,  and,  from  her  youth 
up,  accustomed  to  guard  her  conduct  carefully. 
She  had  indeed  never  passionately  loved  her  hus- 
band. He  treats  her,  however,  well ;  she  becomes 
the  mother  of  several  children ,  and  always  stands  in 
the  best  relation  with  him.  Gothe  becomes  seized 
by  the  most  passionate  reverence  for  her,  which 
extends  itself,  in  a  measure,  to  the  whole  family, — 
husband  and  children.  He  makes  their  interests 
his  own,  educates  one  son,  and  remains  through  life 
his  venerated  friend.  This  son  becomes  a  sharp- 
sighted,  energetic,  not  unimportant  man.  There 
was  never  any  misunderstanding  between  Gothe 
and  the  husband,  who  often  indeed  is  the  messenger 
who  carries  the  poet's  letters  ;  yet  Von  Stein's  honor 
was  never  doubted.  Throughout  Gothe' s  whole 
life  we  find  an  impulse  to  confess.  There  is  no 
relation  of  his  whose  symbolical  presentment  may 
not  somewhere  be  found.  There  is  nothing,  how- 
ever, to  indicate  that  his  relation  with  Charlotte 
von  Stein  was  other  than  honorable.  Gothe  wrote 
to  her  an  almost  countless  number  of  notes  ;  these 
reflect  the  lightest  movements  of  his  heart;  now 
and  then  occurs  a  poem ;  when  he  or  she  is  ab- 
sent from  Weimar,  the  notes  become  letters  or 
journals.  In  these  letters  Gothe' s  life  goes  on  for 
ten  years  like  a  broad,  unbroken  melody.  Trying 
to  figure  to  ourselves  the  young  girls  whom  Gothe 


GOTHE    THE   MAN.  355 

loved,  they  stand  like  finished  pictures  before  our 
eyes,  drawn  by  his  artistic  pen.  We  see  Frederika 
like  a  water-color,  Lotte  like  a  pastel,  Lili  like  a 
Watteau.  Charlotte  von  Stein  is  differently  ren- 
dered. In  her  the  intellectual  strongly  appears. 
Gothe  came  to  Weimar  with  an  intolerable  burden 
of  recollections ;  he  met  a  calm,  self-contained 
woman,  full  of  understanding.  With  her  he  gained 
quiet,  her  voice  stilling  the  waves.  '  O,  thou  wert, 
in  former  days,  my  sister  or  my  wife,'  was  the 
first  line  of  a  song  that  she  early  inspired.  She 
felt,  as  well  as  he,  what  under  other  circumstances 
might  have  been.  Their  affection  became  gradu- 
ally that  of  brother  and  sister.  All  the  beautiful 
points  of  Thuringia  gain  a  new  charm  because  he 
writes  from  them  to  her.  To  her  he  dictates  and 
reads  his  new  poems  —  fragmentary  —  as  they  ap- 
pear. Meantime,  political  life  was  stormless.  In 
this  favoring  atmosphere,  with  her  sympathy  slowly 
grew  the  greatest  works  of  German  literature, — 
« Iphigenia,'  « Tasso,'  « Egmont,'  and  '  Wilhelm  Meis- 
ter.'  Here,  in  a  word,  is  his  earlier  relation  to 
Charlotte  von  Stein  :  A  young  man  steps  into  a  con- 
nection with  a  married  woman,  which  one  might 
name  a  spiritual  marriage,  and  out  of  which,  had  the 
husband  not  been  there,  a  full  marriage  would  cer- 
tainly have  come  to  pass." 

It  is  quite  difficult  to  form  a  clear  idea  of  the 
relation  between  Gothe  and  Charlotte  von  Stein. 
The  extract  just  quoted  puts  it  in  a  very  favorable 
light ;  it  has  sometimes  been  represented  as  highly 
immoral ;  again,  the  lady  has  been  declared  to  be  a 


356  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

finished  coquette,  who  pleased  herself  by  attracting 
her  brilliant  admirer,  only  to  repel  him.  Neither  his 
standing  at  the  court  nor  hers  was  affected  by  the 
intimacy,  which,  it  is  probably  right  to  say,  went  no 
farther  than  the  expression,  on  his  part,  of  his  love, 
and  on  hers  of  alternate  encouragement  and  coldness. 
Though  Grimm  calls  it  a  "  devoted  friendship  of  the 
noblest  sort,"  to  us  the  connection  can  hardly  ap- 
pear otherwise  than  strange  and  culpable.  For  ten 
years,  however,  it  was  a  most  important  element  of 
the  life  of  Gothe  ;  the  thrills  and  throbbings  which 
it  caused,  gloriously  transmuted,  are  imperishable 
masterpieces. 

Meantime,  the  romantic  life  at  Weimar  went  for- 
ward. In  the  morning  there  were  boar-hunts  in  the 
forest,  in  the  course  of  one  of  which  the  spear  broke 
in  Gothe' s  hand,  and  he  nearly  fell  a  victim  to  the 
tusks  of  the  beast.  The  heart  of  the  day  was  given 
to  public  affairs.  Nothing  of  importance  happened 
in  Weimar  without  his  knowledge  or  cooperation. 
He  never  neglected  an  opportunity,  gave  minute 
care  even  to  unimportant  business,  and  sought  in 
every  way  the  good  of  the  land.  In  the  afternoon 
came  literary  employments  ;  often,  in  the  evening, 
amateur  theatricals.1  For  these  a  passion  at  this 
time  prevailed  throughout  Europe,  and  nowhere  was 
the  company  of  actors  so  brilliant  in  rank  and 
genius  as  in  Weimar.  The  duke  and  duchess, 
Gothe  and  his  fellow-poets,  the  lords  and  ladies  of 
the  court,  all  engaged.  Gothe's  person  was  mag- 


Schafer. 


GOTHE    THE   MAN.  357 

nificent,  and  his  voice  corresponded.  Jean  Paul  de- 
scribes his  reading  as  being  "  like  deep-toned  thun- 
der, blended  with  whispering  rain-drops . ' '  His  muse 
for  a  time  was  somewhat  silent,  and  it  was  feared  he 
was  dissipating  his  powers,  but  he  was  silently  shap- 
ing his  masterpieces,  —  "Iphigenia"  and  "Faust," 
"Egmont,"  "Tasso,"  and  "Wilhelm  Meister,"  — 
all  having  touches  that  belong  to  this  time.  We 
shall  do  him  injustice  if  we  consider  him  a  selfish, 
epicurean  reveller.  His  official  labor  was  always 
earnest ;  considerable  portions  of  his  income  went  in 
charity  to  proteges,  whose  relations  with  him  were 
often  touching,  and  to  him  highly  honorable.  All 
who  knew  him,  it  is  said,  loved  him,  as  only  amiable 
natures  can  be  loved,  whether  his  peers  or  his  ser- 
vants,—  children,  women,  scholars,  poets,  princes. 
Even  Herder,  now  preacher  at  Weimar,  a  man  of 
high  dignity  and  virtue,  and  not  always  cordial 
in  his  feelings  toward  Gothe,  speaks  of  him  with 
reverence,  and  this  should  go  a  great  way  to- 
ward mitigating  any  harsh  judgment  we  may, 
with  our  different  standards,  be  inclined  to  form. 
From  the  escapades  of  the  ' '  Storm  and  Stress ' '  • 
he  gradually  developed  into  a  calmer  maturity, 
in  the  transition  accomplishing  some  of  his  grand- 
est work. 

As  he  approached  middle  life,  and  his  character 
assumed  a  graver  cast,  he  began  to  show  power  in  a 
new  direction.  To  the  fame  of  the  greatest  of  the 
poets  of  his  day  he  added  distinction  in  the  fields 
of  science.  We  have  seen  that  as  far  back  as  his 
Strassburg  life  he  had  been  interested  in  medicine. 


358  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

The  reading  of  Buffon  afterwards  impressed  him 
deeply ;  he  became  accomplished  in  botany,  miner- 
alogy, and  anatomy.  Coming  forth  from  his  ab- 
sorption in  official  duties,  court  recreations,  and  lit- 
erary work,  he  renewed  at  length  his  former  studies, 
although  his  friends  condemned  them  as  a  diversion 
of  his  powers  from  their  proper  sphere. 

In  what  remains  to  be  said  of  his  great  life  I  can 
employ  no  detail,  interesting  though  it  might  be. 
He  visited  Italy,  his  taste  gradually  turning  from 
the  things  of  his  fatherland,  until  he  became  filled 
with  a  love  for  the  ancient  world,  in  his  later  years 
appearing  rather  like  a  Greek  of  the  classic  days  than 
like  a  Teuton.  His  admiration  for  the  ancients  be- 
came so  intense  that  he  looked  with  indifference 
upon  mediaeval  art  and  literature.  He  once  told  a 
young  Italian  he  thought  "Dante's  Inferno "  abomi- 
nable, the  "Purgatorio"  dubious,  the  "Paradiso" 
tiresome.1  Many  of  his  friendships  were  memora- 
ble, particularly  that  with  Schiller,  one  of  the  most 
remarkable  and  fruitful  relations  of  the  kind  the 
world  has  ever  seen,  —  more  marked  in  its  effects 
upon  Schiller,  however,  than  Gothe.  At  first  there 
was  mutual  repulsion  ;  but  at  length  their  souls  be- 
came united,  so  that  they  lived  and  worked  side  by 
side  at  Weimar  in  the  utmost  harmony.  Their  re- 
action upon  one  another  was  most  beneficial ;  the 
genius  of  Schiller  was,  as  we  shall  hereafter  see, 
most  powerfully  stimulated ;  Gothe  was  brought 
back  from  scientific  pursuits  —  fields  in  which, 


1  Matthew  Arnold :   Quarterly  Review. 


GO  THE    THE   MAN,  359 

though  great,  he  was  not  supreme  —  to  the  path  of 
poetry,  in  which  he  was  sovereign. 

Step  by  step  he  proceeded  down  the  years,  the 
glorious  perspective  of  his  triumphs  lengthening 
ever  behind  him,  friend  after  friend  dropping  from 
his  side,  until  he  stood  beyond  four-score,  with  eye 
undimmed,  and  natural  force  scarcely  abated,  like 
one  among  whose  splendid  gifts  was  immunity  from 
decay  and  death.  Even  to  the  last  he  was  subject 
to  those  strange  passionate  heats.  When  Charlotte 
von  Stein  was  forsaken,  an  unknown  Italian  woman 
became  his  soul's  queen,  who  in  turn  gave  way  to 
Christiane  Vulpius,  at  length  his  wife,  though  not 
until  after  a  cohabitation  of  many  years.  She  was 
a  girl  of  little  education  and  low  social  position, 
whose  connection  with  Gothe  caused  much  scandal 
in  Weimar,  —  less,  it  is  necessary  to  say,  because 
the  relation  was  immoral  than  because  the  station 
and  manners  of  Christiane  gave  offence  to  the  crit- 
ics. The  enthusiastic  Grimm  says  the  best  that  can 
be  said  :  "When  he  returned  to  Weimar  from*  Italy, 
in  1788,  he  needed  a  wife..  He  wanted  health, 
freshness,  youth,  devotion,  united  with  plain  rea- 
son, from  whatever  sphere  of  society  it  might  come. 
He  was  not  afraid,  therefore,  when,  among  low 
circles,  a  beautiful  girl  met  him,  possessed  of  all 
these  qualities.  The  Frau  von  Stein  was  perhaps  the 
first  cause  why  Gothe,  satiated  on  the  finer  sauces 
of  life,  his  heart  meantime  hungering,  now  took  a 
stout  loaf  of  schwarz-brod  under  his  arm,  into 
which  one  could  bite  at  pleasure,  and  from  whence 
he  hereafter  cut  his  meals.  From  the  first — the 


360  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

one  circumstance  reckoned  out,  that  no  church  cere- 
mony took  place  —  it  was  looked  upon  by  Gothe  as 
a  marriage,  and  never  otherwise.  He  very-  soon 
took  Christiane,  with  her  mother  and  sister,  into  his 
house,  and  lived  with  them  as  his  legitimate  fam- 
ily. The  reproaches  that  were  made  referred  to  the 
social  position  of  Christiane  ;  it  was  said  too  that  her 
manners  were  vulgar.  How  must  we  stand  toward 
this  personality,  who  for  almost  thirty  years  was 
an  inseparable  appendage  of  Gothe,  and  influenced 
him  in  important  ways?  She  is  said  to  have  been  a 
cook,  who  later  took  to  drinking,  and  who,  to  the 
last,  prepared  embarrassments  for  the  poet.  But 
why  not,  instead  of  repeating  the  current  Weimar 
idea,  rather  hold  to  that  which  Gothe  saw  in 
Christiane  ?  She  was  a  girl  whom  he  passionately 
loved,  as  he  confessed  to  Herder ;  one  who,  in  his 
investigations  of  the  metamorphoses  of  plants,  was 
his  listener  and  intimate,  —  mother  of  his  son,  on 
whom  his  whole  heart  hung.  She  was  the  woman 
who  conducted  his  housekeeping,  whom  he  missed 
when  she  was  absent,  and  whose  death  brought  him 
to  despair.  Nothing  was  ever  said  against  her  be- 
fore she  belonged  to  Gothe.  His  mother,  from  the 
first,  called  her  her  dear  daughter,  and  received  her 
well  when  he  brought  her  to  Frankfort.  She  never 
showed  selfishness,  or  replied  to  the  unfavorable 
criticisms  of  which  she  was  the  object.  When,  after 
the  battle  of  Jena,  the  French  plundered  Weimar, 
she  had  the  courage  to  go  through  the  marauders  to 
the  French  officers,  and  procure  a  safeguard  for 
Gothe.  So  far  as  we  know  of  her  conduct,  she  al- 


GOTHE    THE   MAN.  361 

ways  shows  spirit,  energy,  and  sense."  With  this 
view  may  be  contrasted  that  of  a  recent  French 
critic,  Scherer,  highly  praised  by  Matthew  Arnold, 
who  declares  :  « '  Both  moralist  and  man  of  the  world 
must  condemn  the  connection  with  Christiane,  —  a 
degrading  relation  with  a  girl  of  no  education,  whom 
he  did  not  marry  for  eighteen  years.  It  embar- 
rassed all  his  friends.  She  punished  him  —  as  he 
deserved  —  by  a  turn  for  drink,  inherited  by  their 
unfortunate  son . " 1 

It  may  be  believed  that  Gothe  loved  Christiane  ; 
but  she  was  not  the  last.  Late  in  life  came  the  epi- 
sodes of  Minna  Herzlieb  and  Marianne  Willemer, 
and  even  when  he  was  beyond  seventy  a  certain 
Fraulein  von  Lewezow  arouses  an  attachment  of  the 
intensest.  Ever  parallel  with  the  inconstant  move- 
ments of  the  nimble,  mercurial  spirit  runs  the 
record  —  poem  upon  poem,  all  aflame  with  glorious 
impress  from  the  burning  soul,  as  the  cornelian  is 
tinted  from  the  rosy  fires  which  touched  it  at  its 
formation. 

On  the  seventh  of  November,  1825,  the  fiftieth 
anniversary  of  his  arrival  in  Weimar,  the  land  did 
him  honor  in  a  jubilee.  It  had  become  famous  in 
Europe  as  his  home  ;  in  a  hundred  ways  it  had  cause 
to  be  grateful  to  him  as  a  benefactor.  It  was  with 
perfect  sincerity  that  the  people  sang  eulogies  in  his 
honor,  approached  him  with  gifts  and  garlands,  and 
made  the  evening  memorable  with  the  performance 
of  his  peerless  "Iphigenia."  Still  he  had  not  fin- 


Etudes  Critiques  de  Literature,  par  Edmond  Scherer. 


362  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

ished,  but  went  on  seven  years  longer,  fruitful  to  the 
last,  the  concluding  lines  of  "Faust"  falling  from 
beneath  his  hand  even  as  it  grew  benumbed  with 
slow-coming  death. 

Thackeray — a  boy  of  nineteen,  studying  at  Wei- 
mar—  thus  describes  him  in  his  ripeness:  "The 
audience  took  place  in  a  little  antechamber  of 
his  private  apartments,  covered  all  round  with 
antique  casts  and  bas-reliefs.  He  was  habited  in  a 
long,  gray  surtout,  with  a  white  neck-cloth,  and  a 
red  ribbon  in  his  button-hole.  He  kept  his  hands 
behind  his  back,  just  as  in  Ranch's  statuette  ;  his 
complexion  was  very  bright,  clear,  and  rosy ;  his 
eyes  extraordinarily  dark,  piercing,  and  brilliant.  I 
fancied  Gothe  must  have  been  more  handsome  as  an 
old  man  than  even  in  the  days  of  his  youth.  His 
voice  was  very  rich  and  sweet."  At  length  came 
the  spring  of  1832,  bringing  to  him  sickness.  His 
thoughts  began  to  wander.  "  See,"  he  exclaimed, 
"the  lovely  woman's  head,  with  black  curls,  in 
splendid  colors,  a  dark  background  !  "  He  talked 
too  of  long-dead  friends,  among  them  Schiller. 
The  last  words  audible  were  "More  light."  The 
darkness  deepened  upon  him  until  it  became  the 
shadow  of  death. 

"  On  the  morning  after  his  death,"  writes  Ecker- 
mann,  "  a  deep  longing  seized  me  to  see  once  more 
his  form.  His  faithful  servant  Friedrich  opened  the 
room  for  me  where  he  had  been  laid.  Stretched  on 
his  back,  he  rested  like  one  sleeping ;  a  deep  peace 
and  fixedness  ruled  upon  the  features  of  the  lofty, 
noble  countenance  ;  the  mighty  brow  seemed  yet  to 


QOTHE    THE   MAN.  363 

entertain  thoughts.  I  had  a  desire  for  a  lock  of  his 
hair,  but  reverence  prevented  me  from  cutting  it. 
The  body  lay  naked,  wrapped  in  a  white  cloth, — 
the  breast  powerful,  broad,  and  arched,  the  arms 
and  limbs  muscular,  the  feet  beautiful  and  of  the 
purest  form,  and  nowhere  011  the  body  a  trace  of 
emaciation.  A  perfect  man  lay,  in  great  beauty, 
before  me." 

I  have  briefly  sketched  Gothe's  life  ;  we  have 
before  us,  at  present,  the  great  task  of  obtaining  a 
clear  idea  of  him  as  an  author,  —  what  it  was  he  ac- 
complished, and  what  was  the  quality  of  the  accom- 
plishment. Scarcely  a  field  of  literature  can  be 
mentioned  in  which  he  was  not  active.  In  prose 
and  poetry  alike  he  was  great,  but  no  doubt  great- 
est in  the  last.  His  works  form  almost  a  litera- 
ture in  themselves,  the  complete  edition  being 
comprised  in  fifty-four  volumes.  It  will  be  most 
convenient  to  consider  first  his  prose.  By  that  he 
first  became  known  in  Europe ;  in  that  he  was 
not  so  thoroughly  the  master.  We  can  ascend 
from  this,  showing  the  transcendent  man  finally 
upon  the  summits,  with  nothing  above  him  but  the 
stars. 

Gothe's  work  in  science  was  not  performed  until 
he  had  already  achieved  the  highest  literary  reputa- 
tion ;  nor  is  it  quite  appropriate  to  consider  it  in  a 
work  which  professes  to  deal  only  with  belles-let- 
tres. It  must,  however,  be  touched  upon,  and  can 
be  most  conveniently  treated  here.  It  seems  hard 
to  do  otherwise  than  assign  to  Gothe  a  position 


364  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

among  the  greatest  scientific  reputations.  How  in- 
tense his  interest  was  in  this  direction  a  curious 
anecdote  illustrates.  In  the  year  1830,  Gothe — 
eighty-one  years  old,  —  was  absorbed  in  the  scientific 
contest  going  on  in  Paris,  between  Cuvier  and  Geof- 
frey Saint  Hilaire  over  the  question  of  the  unity  of 
the  animal  kingdom.  At  the  same  time  with  the 
news  of  this  academic  contest  the  announcement 
of  the  July  revolution  had  reached  Weimar.  A 
friend  visited  the  old  poet.  "Well,"  cried  out 
Gothe,  "  what  do  you  think  of  this  great  event? 
The  eruption  of  the  volcano  has  come  ;  every  thing 
is  on  fire  ;  there  is  no  longer  a  discussion  with  closed 
doors."  The  visitor,  thinking  he  penetrated  the 
poet's  meaning,  expressed  himself  about  the  fearful 
political  event  —  the  driving  away  of  the  royal  fam- 
ily, and  the  massacres.  It  appeared,  however,  that 
of  that  the  poet  had  had  no  thought,  but  was  en- 
tirely absorbed  by  quite  different  things  —  the  con- 
test so  important  for  science.1 

In  the  science  of  natural  history  Gothe  intro- 
duced two  ideas  of  infinite  fruitfulness.  The  first  was 
the  conception  that  the  differences  in  the  anatomy 
of  different  animals  are  to  be  looked  upon  as  varia- 
tions from  a  common  phase  or  type,  induced  by 
differences  of  habit,  locality,  or  food.  It  was  a 
generalization  which  he  made  from  his  discov- 
ery, in  the  human  skeleton,  of  what  is  known  as 
the  intermaxillary  bone.  It  had  been  a  fact  well 
known  to  osteologists  that  in  most  vertebrates  the 


Kudolph  GottschalL 


GO'THE  THE  MAN. 


365 


upper  jaw  consists  of  two  bones, — the  upper  jaw- 
bone and  the  intermaxillary,  or  bone  between  the 
jaws.  Of  these  bones  it  was  supposed  that  in  the 
human  skull  only  one  existed — the  upper  jawbone. 
Gothe,  subjecting  the  skull  to  patient  study,  dem- 
onstrated the  existence  of  sutures  in  the  upper 
jawbone ;  reasoning  therefrom  that  there  was  no 
departure  from  the  universal  type  in  man,  showing 
that  in  the  foetal  skull,  in  place  of  sutures,  there 
were  distinct  separations,  and  affirming  that  man 
had  originally  possessed  an  intermaxillary  bone, 
which  had  coalesced  with  its  neighbor.  Never  has 
a  more  splendid  example  been  given  of  the  value 
of  imagination  in  scientific  investigation  than  the 
procedure  of  Gothe  upon  this  obscure  hint.1  To  an 
ordinary  mind,  what  more  trifling  than  such  a  fact? 
But  we  presently  find,  in  a  treatise  of  Gothe,  the 
magnificent  generalization  that  lies  at  the  bottom  of 
comparative  anatomy,  namely,  that  all  differences 
in  the  structure  of  animals  must  be  looked  upon  as 
variations  of  a  single  primitive  type,  induced  by  the 
coalescence,  the  alteration,  the  increase,  the  dimi- 
nution, or  even  the  complete  removal,  of  single  parts 
of  the  structure.  The  thought  was  enunciated  by 
Gothe  with  the  utmost  confidence  and  precision, 
and- has  been  nowhere  better  expressed.  The  theory 
stands  to-day  almost  unaltered.  "  The  coordina- 
tion of  the  whole,"  he  declares,  "  makes  every 
creature  to  be  what  it  is.  Thus  is  every  creature 
but  a  note  of  the  great  harmony,  which  must  be 


Helmholtz :   Gothe's  wissenschaflliche  Erforschungen. 


366  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

studied  in  the  whole,  or  else  is  nothing  but  a  dead 
letter."  l 

The  second  leading  conception  which  science  owes 
to  Gothe  is  that  an  analogy  exists  between  the  dif- 
erent  parts  of  the  same  organic  being,  similar  to 
that  which  exists  between  corresponding  parts  in  dif- 
ferent species.  This  is  most  striking  in  the  vegeta- 
ble kingdom.  One  day,  while  Gothe  was  looking 
at  a  fan-palm  at  Padua,  in  Italy,  he  was  struck  by 
the  variety  of  changes  of  form  shown  in  the  leaves, 
from  the  simple  ones  near  the  root  to  the  very 
complicated  ones  higher  on  the  stem.  Following 
out  his  thought,  he  discovered  the  transformation 
of  the  leaves  into  sepals,  petals,  stamens,  nectaries, 
ovaries,  and  thus  was  led  to  the  doctrine  of  the 
metamorphosis  of  plants, — that  all  parts  of  a 
plant,  namely,  are  variations  of  one  type,  that  of 
the  leaf,  —  a  view  completely  adopted  into  science, 
and  enjoying  the  universal  assent  of  botanists.  But 
Gothe  saw  that  morphology,  the  science  of  the 
forms  of  which  things  are  made,  had  an  applica- 
tion to  the  world  of  animals  as  well  as  vegetables. 
In  some  animal  forms  the  composition  of  an  individ- 
ual out  of  several  similar  parts  is  very  striking.  In 
the  articulata,  the  caterpillar  consists  of  a  number 
of  perfectly  similar  segments.  When  the  worm  be- 
comes the  butterfly  it  furnishes  the  clear  exemplifi- 
cation of  the  view  which  Gothe  had  adopted  in 
the  metamorphoses  of  plants,  —  the  development, 
namely,  of  apparently  very  dissimilar  forms  from 

1  Quoted  by  Helmholtz. 


GO  THE    THE   MAN. 


367 


parts  originally  alike.  lie  showed  that  the  same 
unity  prevails  in  the  higher  kingdom  of  the  verte- 
brates. Walking  one  day  near  the  Jewish  cemetery, 
at  Venice,  he  picked  up  a  broken  sheep's  skull,  and 
the  idea  occurred  to  him  that  the  skull  in  verte- 
brates consists  of  a  series  of  very  much  altered  ver- 
tebroe, —  an  idea  which,  when  followed  out,  led  to 
the  theory  that  every  single  bone  of  the  skeleton 
is  either  part  of  a  vertebra,  or  the  appendage  to  a 
vertebra.1 

Only  the  scientific  student  can  fully  appreciate 
what  is  wrapped  up  in  conceptions  which  may  be  so 
briefly  stated,  but  all  versed  in  natural  history  will 
understand  the  immense  importance  of  the  detection 
of  such  types.  We  may  read  in  Gothe  the  clearest 
announcement  of  certain  general  laws  of  organiza- 
tion which  lie  at  the  foundation  of  the  development 
theory,  —  a  theory  which,  whether  adopted  or  not  in 
its  absolute  form,  must  modify  largely,  henceforth, 
all  scientific  thinking,  and  is  one  of  the  remarkable 
discoveries  of  our  time.  "The  labors  of  botanists 
and  zoologists,"  says  Helmholtz,  "  did  little  more 
than  collect  materials,  until  they  learned  to  dispose 
of  them  in  such  a  series  that  the  laws  of  dependence 
and  a  generalized  type  could  be  elicited.  Here  the 
great  mind  of  our  poet  found  a  field  suited  to  it. 
His  contemporaries  all  wandered  without  compass. 
He  was  enabled  to  introduce  into  science  ideas  of 
infinite  fruitfulness."  Before  dismissing  Gothe's 
work  in  descriptive  or  organic  science,  it  may  be 


Helmholtz. 


368  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

mentioned  that  Agassiz  is  said  to  have  attrib- 
uted to  him  an  anticipation  of  his  famous  glacial 
theory.1 

In  experimental  science  the  place  of  Gothe  is  less 
honorable  than  in  the  department  just  considered. 
His  theory  of  colors,  in  which  he  attempted  to  over- 
throw the  authority  of  Newton,  has  not  been  sus- 
tained. It  may  be  passed  by  without  description. 
Although  erroneous,  Gothe  clung  to  it  with  singular 
persistency,  showing  in  his  defence  of  it  a  bad 
temper,  which  was  strange  enough  in  one  who  ordi- 
narily treated  opposition  with  serene  calmness. 
Though  so  valueless,  he  showed  a  peculiar  attach- 
ment to  it,  which,  however,  is  perhaps  not  without 
parallel  in  the  lives  of  great  men.  "As  to  what  I 
have  done  as  a  poet,"  said  Gothe  to  Eckermann, 
"  I  take  no  pride  in  it  whatever ;  excellent  poets 
have  lived  at  the  same  time  with  myself,  more  ex- 
cellent poets  have  lived  before  me,  and  will  come 
after  me.  But  that  in  my  century  I  am  the  only 
person  who  knows  the  truth  in  the  difficult  science 
of  colors,  of  that  I  say  I  am  not  a  little  proud." 

Turning  now  to  the  class  of  works  the  considera- 
tion of  which  more  properly  belongs  here,  in  the 
case  of  many  of  them  the  briefest  mention  must  suf- 
fice. The  number  and  variety  of  them  is  very  great, 
and  all  are  dwarfed  in  importance  before  the  poems 
to  which  must  be  given  our  main  attention.  In  the 
record  of  his  three  Swiss  journeys  and  his  Italian 
journey  we  find  considerations  of  nature,  art,  and 


1  Hermann  Grimm. 


GOTHE    THE   MAN. 


369 


man  worthy  of  so  great  a  spirit.  Of  his  historical  and 
biographical  activity  nothing  is  so  interesting  as  the 
"Poetry  and  Truth,"  —  his  autobiography  during 
his  forming  years,  ending  with  his  entrance  upon 
the  Weimar  life.  It  was  written  in  age,  and  in  tell- 
ing the  stories  of  his  childhood  the  old  man  is  often 
garrulous ;  but  it  is  the  most  graphic  and  pictur- 
esque detail  possible  of  a  splendid  development. 

The  consideration  of  Gothe' s  romances  will  aiford 
a  convenient  transition  from  the  prose  to  the  poetry. 
The  circumstances  have  already  been  detailed  under 
which  Gothe  wrote  his  first  romance,  the  "  Sorrows 
of  Werther."  He  was  little  beyond  twenty  years 
old,  much  under  the  influence  of  the  "  storm  and 
stress  ' '  which  belonged  to  his  time  of  life  and  the 
fermenting  age  in  which  he  lived.  Deeply  in  love 
with  Lotte,  a  girl  betrothed  to  his  friend  Kestner, 
Gothe  sees  them  given  to  each  other  and  leaves 
Wetzlar,  suffering  from  his  passion.  At  the  same 
time,  in  Wetzlar,  a  youth  known  to  Gothe,  wild 
through  love  to  a  woman  already  married,  commits 
suicide.  In  the  "  Sorrows  of  Werther"  the  stories 
are  combined,  —  the  course  of  the  hero  is  the  ex- 
perience of  Gothe,  the  hero's  fate  at  last  that  of 
the  suicide.  The  circumstances  are  singular,  almost 
repulsive.  Throwing  ourselves  back,  as  well  as  we 
can,  into  the  very  different  spirit  of  that  time,  in 
order  to  judge  the  work  with  candor,  we  must  ac- 
cord to  it  an  excellent  plan  and  a  felicitous  execu- 
tion.1 First,  the  character  of  Werther  is  explained ; 

1  Kurz. 


370  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

we  learn  him  with  all  his  peculiarities,  — his  love  of 
nature,  of  poetry,  of  solitude,  his  disposition  to 
gloom  and  enthusiasm.  In  his  heart  there  is  a  void 
of  which  he  himself  knows  not  how  to  give  account, 
but  he  is  filled  with  dissatisfaction.  While  in  this 
mood,  he  makes  the  acquaintance  of  Charlotte,  in 
the  midst  of  her  younger  brothers  and  sisters,  en- 
gaged in  the  way  which  in  later  times  has  been  so 
much  laughed  at,  —  of  spreading  for  the  children 
bread  and  butter.1  He  feels  that  she  alone  can  fill 
the  void,  —  that  through  her  alone  can  his  life  attain 
aim  and  significance.  The  deep  entrancement  of 
upspringing  love  is  developed  in  a  fair  picture  with 
great  psychological  power  ;  how  it  creeps  into  the 
heart  of  youth,  growing  daily  until  it  becomes  a 
wasting  passion.  Werther  tries,  not  to  fight  it,  but 

1  Thackeray's  amusing  lines  will  be  remembered: 

Werther  had  a  love  for  Charlotte 

Such  as  words  could  never  utter; 
Would  you  know  how  first  he  met  her? 

She  was  cutting  bread  and  butter. 

Charlotte  was  another's  lady, 

And  a  moral  man  was  Werther; 
And  for  all  the  wealth  of  Indies 

Would  do  nothing  for  to  hurt  her. 

So  he  sighed  and  pined  and  ogled, 

And  his  passion  boiled  and  bubbled, 
Till  he  blew  his  silly  brains  out, 

And  no  more  by  it  was  troubled. 

Charlotte  having  seen  his  body 

Borne  before  her  on  a  shutter, 
Like  a  well-conducted  person 

Went  on  cutting  bread  and  butter. 


QOTHE    THE   MAN.  371 

to  take  away  its  nourishment,  by  leaving  Charlotte. 
His  spirit  is  so  charmed  that  it  is  wounded  by  every- 
thing which  touches  it  ungently  ;  and  when,  in  the 
new  relations  he  has  sought,  his  feeling  of  honor  is 
rudely  injured,  he  has  no  longer  strength  to  bear  the 
insult.  He  feels  that  the  hopelessness  of  his  pas- 
sion has  robbed  him  of  all  manly  power ;  he  there- 
fore determines  upon  suicide,  as  one  who  has  noth- 
ing more  to  expect  of  life.  There  is  enough  in  the 
book  which  will  seem  to  any  modern  reader  absurd, 
but  the  story  is  wonderfully  well  told.  The  life- 
warm  style  presents  the  passion  which  seizes  upon 
the  heart  of  youth,  in  all  times,  with  overpowering 
truth.  Every  expression  is  from  the  deep  of  a  soul 
thrilled  with  love.  All  is  perfectly  clear ;  nothing 
lost,  as  is  so  often  the  case  with  German  writers,  in 
the  mist  of  indefinite  sentiment  which  seeks  an  ex- 
pression in  unintelligibility.  Remembering  how 
greatly  superior  in  the  matter  of  style  French 
writers  in  general  are  to  German,  we  may  under- 
stand the  compliment  paid  to  the  "  Sorrows  of  Wer- 
ther  "  by  a  clever  translator :  *  "  The  language  of 
Gothe  in  '  Werther  *  is  as  clear  as  Voltaire's.  It 
can  almost  be  translated  word  for  word  into  correct 
French." 

The  first  romance  of  Gothe  was  also  his  best. 
The  famous  "  Wilhelm  Meister's  Apprenticeship" 
has  indeed  been  very  variously  judged,  and  it  is 
curious  to  set  side  by  side  the  enthusiasm  for  it  felt 
by  Carlyle  and  Schiller,  and  the  low  estimate  of  the 

1  Leroux. 


372  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

French  writer,  Scherer,  and  of  Niebuhr,  who  calls 
it  ««  a  menagerie  of  tame  animals."  It  advanced 
slowly  to  completion,  with  many  interruptions,  and 
in  this  way  was  injured.  Like  everything  of  Gothe's, 
it  is  a  reflection  of  experience  to  a  large  extent.  A 
careful  seeker  can  find  the  originals  of  the  charac- 
ters in  the  writer's  associates ;  and  the  wild  Bohe- 
mian player-life  that  is  given  in  such  detail  re- 
produces to  a  large  extent  Gothe's  early  days  in 
Weimar.1  It  is  greatly  wanting  in  unity ;  there  is 
little  pretence  of  a  coherent  plan  running  through  it 
from  first  to  last ;  it  is  rather  a  series  of  detached 
scenes  and  episodes.  Gothe  once  said,  indeed, 
"  A  central  plan  is  sought  for  it ;  I  find  that  hard  ; 
I  should  think  a  rich  manifold  life  which  passes  be- 
fore our  eyes  would  be  something  in  itself,  even 
without  a  declared  aim."2  What  the  poet  wished 
to  do,  according  to  his  own  declaration,  was  to  ex- 
press his  ideas  upon  matters  of  art  and  life,  and,  in 
connection,  to  show  how  a  capable  but  weak  man, 
through  art  and  contact  with  life,  can  be  edu- 
cated to  independence.  But  how  imperfectly  is 
this  end  carried  out !  The  hero,  at  the  end,  is  just 
as  unstable,  more  so,  than  at  first ;  only  a  play- 
thing in  the  hands  of  others.  In  fact,  if  Gothe 
had  any  plan,  he  often  changed  it  in  the  course  of 
his  elaboration,  and  to  some  extent  seems,  in  this 
work,  to  have  abandoned  his  peculiar  skill  in  com- 
position. The  long  episodes,  though  beautiful 


1  Grimm. 
1  Eckerrnann. 


GOTHE    THE   MAN.  373 

often  in  themselves,  are  not  connected  by  any 
visible  threads  with  the  whole,  as  regards  events 
or  characters.  But  Gothe  is  still  Gothe.  With  all 
its  faults,  "  Wilhelm  Meister's  Apprenticeship"  is 
full  of  genius.  In  spite  of  the  incoherence,  the  de- 
velopment of  characters  is  often  masterly.  The  old 
harper,  "  Philine,"  above  all  "  Mignon,"  are  power- 
fully stamped  individualities.  Scattered  here  and 
there  are  fine  bits  of  literary  criticism,  best  among 
them  the  famous  critique  of  ' '  Hamlet. ' '  Deep  views 
are  expressed  with  regard  to  matters  of  art,  politics, 
civil  society.  The  philosophical  importance  of  the 
book  is  high,  but  I  find  no  fault  with  the  judgment 
which  pronounces  it  a  complete  failure  as  a  poetic 
picture .1  The  ' '  Wanderjahre , "  —  "  Years  of  Wan- 
dering,"—  written  after  the  "  Apprenticeship,"  is 
even  less  satisfactory  than  its  predecessor.  It  is 
utterly  without  coherence,  but  has  excellencies  of  the 
same  kind,  —  a  collection  of  heterogeneous  scraps  of 
wit,  wisdom,  and  poetry,  often  brilliant  and  precious, 
particularly  those  relating  to  political  philosophy, 
but  as  unconnected  as  kaleidoscopic  fragments. 

The  «« Elective  Affinities,"  though  from  an 
artistic  standpoint  superior  to  "Wilhelm  Meister," 
is  quite  inferior  to  "  Werther,"  and  in  its  subject, 
if  not  quite  immoral,  at  any  rate  somewhat  repul- 
sive. It  was  written  under  the  influence  of  Gothe' s 
passion  for  Fran  von  Stein,  his  relation  with  her  re- 
ceiving here  an  "  artistic  glorification,"2  although 


1  Kurz. 

a  H.  Grimm. 


374  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

it  was  another  charmer,  Minna  Herzlieb,  who  sat 
for  the  heroine,  "  Ottilie."  A  modern  reader  will 
be  most  interested  in  its  beautiful  descriptions  of 
nature,  which  justify  the  claim  that  has  been  made 
for  Gothe,  that  he  is  the  greatest  of  literary  land- 
scape painters.  The  "Fairy  Stories"  (Mahrchen) 
possess  no  merits  which  are  not  seen  to  better 
advantage  in  the  more  extended  works.  The  most 
famous  is  that  of  "The  Serpent,"  which  has  been 
much  praised  for  its  deep  sense.  It  must  be  said, 
however,  that  what  sense  it  contains  has  never  been 
satisfactorily  reached,  because  every  interpreter 
gives  it  a  different  explanation.  It  has  served  a 
bad  purpose,  with  much  else  that  Gothe  has  writ- 
ten, in  leading  to  waste  of  time  and  brains  in 
symbolical  criticism,  a  point  which  will  be  touched 
upon  again. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

GO  THE,  THE  POET. 

Gothe  as  a  poet !  I  do  not  know  how  to  introduce 
ray  consideration  better  than  by  a  sketch  of  a  famous 
treatise  of  Schiller,  entitled  "  Upon  Naive  and  Sen- 
timental Poetry,"1  in  which  he  desired,  as  it  were, 
to  take  account  of  the  peculiarity  of  his  own  poetic 
talent  in  contrast  with  that  of  Gothe,  and,  side  by 
side  with  the  recognition  which  he  paid  the  latter, 
to  justify  also  his  own  way  of  writing.  The  poet, 
he  says,  can  proceed  in  a  twofold  way ;  he  can,  in 
his  soul,  embrace  the  world  outside  of  himself  im- 
mediately, quite  unconscious  of  any  idea  within  him- 
self; or,  on  the  other  hand,  he  can  take  some  idea 
within  his  soul  as  a  starting-point,  and  seek  to  blend 
this,  by  a  second  step,  with  the  world  of  outside 
phenomena.  The  first  way  is  that  of  the  ancients, 
of  whom  we  may  consider  Homer  the  typical  poet ; 
wherefore  Schiller  calls  that  way  of  writing  poetry 
the  antique.  He  calls  it  naive,  or  artless,  because 
the  poet,  living  in  and  with  nature,  creates  his  work, 
as  it  were,  unconsciously.  Still  another  name  for 
this  class  of  poets,  and  the  most  convenient,  per- 
haps, is  objective;  absorbed  in  the  object  contem- 


Ueber  Naive  und  Sentimentale  Dichtung. 


376  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

plated,  the  subject  —  the  contemplator  —  forgets  it- 
self and  sinks  out  of  sight.  The  second  way  is 
called  sentimental,  because  the  poet  proceeds  not 
immediately  from  the  contemplation  of  nature,  but 
from  himself,  as  a  starting-point,  taking  some  senti- 
ment or  idea  of  his  spirit.  In  a  world  which  has  to 
some  extent  forgotten  nature  and  become  artifi- 
cial,—  the  modern  world,  —  Schiller  believed  that 
poets  of  the  second  kind  would  be  most  likely  to 
abound.  He  therefore  calls  this  kind  of  poetry 
modern.  Still  another  name  for  the  second  kind  — 
the  most  convenient  again  —  is  subjective ;  because 
the  idea  gained  from  the  soul,  or  subject  contem- 
plating, is  first  in  the  poet's  elaboration.  Though 
poets  of  the  first  kind  —  the  naive  or  objective  — 
appear  principally  in  antiquity,  they  can  still  appear 
in  modern  times.  We  may  take  Shakespeare  to  be 
such  a  poet.  He  "  holds  the  mirror  up  to  nature." 
The  nature  —  the  object  —  we  perceive  with  perfect 
distinctness;  but  of  the  subject  —  the  thing  per- 
ceiving— we  know  nothing.  Who  knows  what  were 
Shakespeare's  ideas  ?  He  produces  for  us  the  world, 
in  abundant,  wonderful  presentation  ;  he  himself  is 
a  sphinx  of  whom  no  man  can  do  more  than  guess. 
"Who  can  figure,"  says  Carlyle,  "what  the  man 
Shakespeare  was,  by  the  first,  by  the  twentieth  pe- 
rusal of  his  works  ?  He  is  a  voice  coming  to  us  from 
the  land  of  melody ;  his  old  brick  dwelling-place, 
in  the  mere  earthly  burgh  of  Stratford-upon-Avon, 
offers  us  a  most  inexplicable  enigma.  And  what  is 
Homer  in  the  Iliad  ?  He  is  the  witness ;  he  has 
i,  and  he  reveals  it ;  we  hear  and  believe,  but  do 


GOTHE    THE    POET.  377 

not  behold  him.  Now  compare  with  these  two 
poets  any  other  two,  —  not  of  equal  genius,  for  there 
are  none  such,  but  of  equal  sincerity, — who  wrote 
as  earnestly  as  they.  Take,  for  instance,  Jean  Paul 
and  Byron.  The  good  Richter  begins  to  show  him- 
self in  his  broad,  massive,  kindly,  quaint  signifi- 
cance, before  we  have  read  many  pages  of  even  his 
slightest  work;  and  to  the  last  he  paints  himself 
much  better  than  his  subject.  Byron  may  also  be 
said  to  have  painted  nothing  but  himself,  be  his  sub- 
ject what  it  might."  *  *  *  "  As  a  test  for  the 
culture  of  the  poet,  in  his  poetical  capacity,  for  his 
pretensions  to  mastery  and  completeness  in  his  art, 
we  cannot  but  reckon  this  (the  power  of  objective 
presentment,  while  the  subject  is  out  of  sight) 
among  the  surest.  Tried  by  this,  there  is  no  writer 
of  our  time  who  approaches  within  many  degrees  of 
Gothe."1 

I  have  found  a  consideration  of  Gothe' s  poetic 
character  which  seems  to  me  still  more  delicate  and 
keen  than  that  of  Carlyle.  The  critic  insists,  like 
Carlyle,  upon  the  objective  quality  of  the  genius  of 
Gothe,  but  finds  it  subjective  also.  "  In  all  his 
poems  there  is  a  vague,  indefinite  self,  — reflecting  a 
definite  and  clearly-outlined  influence  which  im- 
presses that  self.  His  own  mind  is  the  sheet  of 
water  which  reflects  the  image,  and  you  see  only 
that  it  stretches  vaguely  away  beyond  and  beneath 
the  image  it  is  reflecting  ;  but  what  catches  the  eye 
is  the  clear  outline  of  the  reflected  object  in  the 

1  Essay  on  Gothe. 


378  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

water.  His  imagination  was  passive  and  not  active  ; 
it  reflected  back  with  faithful  minuteness  the  influ- 
ence which  produced  the  results.  The  best  part  of 
his  poems  is  that  m  which  external  objects  and 
social  impulses  are  rendered  again,  but  you  always 
find  the  vague  mental  reflecting  surface  by  which 
they  are  thus  given  back ;  you  always  have  both 
the  deep,  dim,  Gotheish  mirror,  and  the  finely  out- 
lined object  which  skims  over  it.  The  two  never 
coalesce,  as  in  Shakespeare."1  If  we  accept  the 
emendation  of  Carlyle's  view,  proposed  in  the  pas- 
sage just  quoted,  we  shall  still  regard  Gothe  as  in 
the  main  an  objective  poet,  though  less  definitely 
so  than  the  great  bards  with  whom  he  is  associated. 
Of  the  second  kind  of  poets,  the  subjective, — 
of  whom  Carlyle  takes  Jean  Paul  and  Byron  as 
types,  —  I  believe  we  may  hold  Schiller  himself  to 
be  a  still  nobler  representative.  It  will  be  seen 
when  he  is  treated  more  particularly,  how,  instead 
of  beginning  with  the  external,  he  proceeds  from 
certain  ideas  in  his  soul ;  we  see  how  these  ideas  fill 
his  soul ;  how  he  pours  them  into  his  poems,  his 
main  design  being  to  obtain  expression  for  them, 
while  the  picturing  of  the  object  is  a  secondary 
matter.  Schiller  addresses  Gothe  in  a  noble  stanza  : 

Both  of  us  seek  the  truth ;  thou  outward  in  life,  but  I  inward ; 
I  in  the  heart ;  and  so  each  shall  the  truth  certainly  find. 
If  the  eye  has  health,  in  the  outer  'twill  meet  the  Creator. 
If  the  heart  is  sound,  it  will  meet  the  Creator  within. 

Gothe,  as  has  been  considered  in  the  sketch  of 
1  Richard  Holt  Button:  Essay  on  Gothe. 


GOTHE    THE   POET.  379 

his  life,  was  the  most  impressible  of  men.  Through 
eye  and  ear,  and  every  sense,  he  took  in  the  uni- 
verse with  a  zest  and  thoroughness  almost  preter- 
human, making  it  his  possession  and  becoming  pos- 
sessed by  it,  as  the  chameleon  takes  the  hue  of  the 
object  upon  which  it  lies.  His  objectivity  was  the 
foundation  of  his  poetic  nature ;  the  manifold  phe- 
nomena of  life  he  absorbed  into  himself,  and 
formed  them  again  artistically.  "  It  was  not  my 
way  as  poet,"  he  said,  "  to  strive  after  the  embodi- 
ment of  something  abstract.  I  received  in  my  soul 
impressions  of  a  sensible,  living,  lovely  kind,  and  I 
had  nothing  more  to  do  than  make  them  plain  to 
others.  If  I  had  any  idea  to  present,  I  did  it  in  a 
little  poem."  *  *  *  « Whatever  pleased,  pained, 
or  otherwise  affected  me,  I  changed  into  a  picture, 
a  poem,  and  so  finished  with  it,  partly  to  justify 
my  ideas  of  outward  things,  partly  to  quiet  myself 
within.  All  things,  therefore,  which  I  have  written 
are  fragments  of  a  great  confession." 

From  what  has  been  said,  it  would  seem  to  follow 
that  Gothe  would  be  especially  great  in  emotional 
or  lyric  poetry.  Here  it  is,  indeed,  —  if  we  except 
one  drama, — that  he  stands  highest.  "I  have 
never  aifected  anything,"  he  said.  "What  I  did 
not  live,  —  what  did  not  burn  within  me  and  make  me 
create, — I  have  not  practised  and  expressed.  I  have 
only  written  love  poems  when  I  loved."  And  so 
of  other  passions  ;  they  were  only  and  always  ex- 
pressed as  felt ;  therefore,  in  the  great  body  of 
lyrics  which  Gothe  has  left,  the  variety  is  endless  ; 
each  poem  is  peculiar  and  independent.  There  is 


380  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

the  highest  completeness,  the  fullest  naturalness. 
Whatever  the  sentiment  may  be  in  his  songs,  it  ap- 
pears with  such  certainty  and  truth  we  are  hardly 
conscious  of  the  dress  of  words ;  there  is  such 
mastery  and  wealth  in  the  use  of  rhyme  and  rhythm 
that  his  songs  have  an  imperishable  charm.1 

tn  sketching  Gothe's  life,  his  strange  suscepti- 
bility as  regards  women  was  noticed.  With  most 
men  such  susceptibility  loses  its  power  when  youth 
has  been  fairly  passed  ;  but  in  the  transcendent  Ger- 
man it  was  as  apparent  when  he  was  an  octogenarian 
as  when  he  was  but  twenty,  and  there  was  scarcely 
an  intervening  period  when  he  was  not  the  subject 
of  a  passion  more  or  less  intense.  It  was  part  of 
his  strange  impressibility.  Plain  men  and  women 
will  call  it  an  absurd  weakness  ;  but  just  as  from 
some  unsoundness  in  the  mollusk  the  pearl  is  said  to 
be  secreted,  so  the  poet's  foible  has  resulted  for  us 
in  something  precious.  How  manifold  and  rich  his 
love  poems  are  is  made  plain  by  the  writer  whose 
work  in  this  chapter,  as  in  general,  has  been  with 
me  the  vade-mecum.*  In  them  are  expressed  all 
gradations  of  passion,  from  the  cheerful  and  sport- 
ive beginnings  to  love  most  devouring,  and  the 
shadings  intermediate  between  the  extremes  are  all 
commemorated.  Among  the  most  remarkable  of 
the  lyrics  are  those  known  as  the  "Hymns,"  the 
"  Elegies,"  and  a  collection  made  late  in  life  called 
the  "  West-ostliche  Divan."  In  the  "Hymns" 


1  Kurz. 
1  Kurz. 


GOTHE    THE   POET.  381 

the  tone  is  Greek;  in  the  "Elegies,"  Roman;  in 
the  latter  collection  the  influence  of  Oriental  stud- 
ies at  that  time  undertaken  is  powerfully  reflected. 
In  those  compositions  Gothe  follows  in  the  path  of 
Herder.  How  successful  Herder  was  in  reproducing 
the  spirit  of  various  ages  and  lands,  while  refrain- 
ing from  imitation,  has  been  considered.  It  marks 
well  the  greatness  of  Gothe  that  here,  where  Her- 
der was  at  his  best,  the  unique  man  so  far  surpassed 
him..  In  the  poems  of  the  "  West-ostliche  Divan  " 
the  inspiration  comes  from  a  certain  charmer, 
Marianne  Willemer,  who  is  celebrated  under  the 
name  of  "  Suleika."  We  might  say  that  Gothe  has 
evoked  by  magic  to  new  life  the  Oriental  element 
slumbering  in  the  Teuton  from  primeval  times. 
The  poems  do  not  make  a  foreign  impression  upon 
us,  though  written  in  the  Oriental  spirit.  In  his 
"  Elegies,"  which  flowed  from  no  other  source  than 
his  passion  for  his  "loaf  of  schwarz-brod,"  Chris- 
tiane  Vulpius,  Gothe  reaches  the  highest  artistic 
completeness.  Each  one  of  them  is  a  masterpiece 
which  cannot  be  surpassed ;  in  which  plan  and  ex- 
ecution, thought  and  language,  presentation  and 
rhythm,  the  whole  and  every  particular,  are  alike 
admirable  ;  in  which  the  antique  form  blends  felic- 
itously with  the  modern  life,  the  circumstances  of 
the  present  receiving,  as  it  were,  a  higher  consecra- 
tion, touched  as  they  are  by  the  breath  of  an- 
tiquity, while  the  essential  peculiarity  of  the  mod- 
ern world  is  in  no  way  disturbed.1  When  Gothe 

1  Kurz. 


382  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

first  met  Christiane  in  Weimar,  a  girl  in  her  finest 
bloom,  his  soul  was  full  of  Roman  pictures.  It  is 
conjectured  that  she  may  have  seemed  to  him  to 
possess  Roman  characteristics,  her  portraits  justi- 
fying such  a  supposition.  "  He  surrounds  her  with 
all  that  adorned  his  life  in  Rome,  in  his  recollection  ; 
makes  her  pour  wine  in  a  vineyard,  he  being  the 
guest  dearest  to  her  ;  veils  her  figure  with  an  Italian 
vapor,  as  he  details  their  love  experiences.  Nothing 
written  in  modern  times  is  so  antique  as  the  'Ele- 
gies.' One  would  think  Catullus,  Tibullus,  or  Pro- 
pertius  by  metempsychosis  had  reached  Weimar, 
tuned  his  lyre  anew,  become  intoxicated  in  the 
pleasure  of  these  later  days,  carried  the  old  ac- 
customed wine  to  his  lips,  brought  up  again  from 
the  grave  the  primeval  enjoyment  of  existence  !  "  * 

In  the  "  Hymns,"  again,  Gothe  rests  upon  a  Greek 
antiquity  ;  but  here  too  with  the  same  independence. 
The  plain,  earnest  attitude  ;  the  simple  yet  exalted 
tone,  in  many  rising  into  the  impetuosity  of  the  dithy- 
ramb ;  the  vehement  rhapsodies  which  have  their 
name  from  a  title  of  Bacchus  ;  the  antique  measures 
which  move  on  with  perfect  harmony,  so  that  the 
rhyme  is  in  no  way  missed, — all  these  characteristics 
remind  us  of  the  productions  of  the  Greek  lyric 
poets.  And  yet  every  thing  is  quite  different.  A 
thoroughly  modern  comprehension  of  the  universe, 
and  the  whole  fulness  of  Christian  culture  meet  us.8 

It  is  right,  perhaps,  to  say  that  the  expression  "di- 


1  Grimm. 

2  Kurz. 


GOTHE   THE  POET.  383 

dactic  poetry" — teaching  poetry — is  a  contradic- 
tion in  terms.  The  best  critics — Coleridge,  for  in- 
stance, in  England ;  Lessing  and  Schiller,  in  Ger- 
many —  hold  that  the  proper  function  of  poetry  is  to 
please,  and  it  is  contrasted  with  science,  whose  func- 
tion is  to  teach.  There  are  a  few  poems  of  Gothe 
which  trench  upon  the  didactic.  His  scientific  trea- 
tises upon  the  metamorphosis  of  plants  and  animals 
he  put  into  rhythmical  form  ;  but  as  didactic  poetry  is 
a  perversion,  so  here  his  genius  was  not  at  his  best. 
As  a  satirist,  he  composed  a  vast  number  of  epi- 
grams,—  graphic,  delicate,  mocking,  —  for  the  most 
part  couplets  or  quatrains,  much  inferior  in  interest 
to  his  great  works,  but  enough  of  themselves  to 
found  a  fine  poetic  fame.  In  this  department  of 
poetry  his  most  noteworthy  accomplishment  was 
that  brought  to  pass  in  connection  with  Schiller,  the 
great  collection  of  epigrams  known  as  the  "  Xenien." 
At  the  end  of  the  eighteenth  century  the  literary  pub- 
lic of  Germany  seemed  likely  to  go  astray  after  false 
leaders.  A  certain  incorrectness  of  taste  was  be- 
coming more  and  more  apparent.  Great  poets  were 
neglected,  while  mediocre  productions  were  received 
with  surprising  favor.  The  name  "Xenien"  and 
the  plan  were  taken  from  the  Latin  satirist,  Martial. 
The  undertaking  was  successful.  The  two  poets 
combined  their  wit  and  knowledge  ;  the  poetasters 
and  false  guides  smarted  under  the  lash,  and  at  last 
were  largely  driven  from  the  field,  leaving  the  scene 
for  those  more  worthy. 

In  epic  poetry — by  which  the  Germans  under- 
stand, not  simply  the  exalted  verse  in  which  move  he- 


384  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

roes  and  demigods,  but  narrative  poetry,  the  ballad, 
and  even  the  idyl  or  pastoral — Gothe  shows  scarcely 
less  variety  and  power  than  in  the  lyric.  He  is  rarely 
below  his  standard  ;  all  his  attempts  are  models  of 
their  class.  His  ballads  are  among  the  best  of  the 
world.  Following  here  again  the  example  of  Her- 
der, in  throwing  himself  into  the  spirit  of  past  ages 
and  distant  regions,  he  creates  pictures  in  the  taste 
of  the  greatest  poets  of  antiquity  and  foreign  lands, 
as  they  only  could  have  produced  them  had  they 
lived  in  Gothe' s  time  and  belonged  to  his  race.  At 
one  time  we  are  with  Shakespeare,  at  another  with 
the  mastersinger  Hans  Sachs,  at  still  other  times 
with  Sophocles,  Aristophanes,  and  Homer.  In  the 
"Achillies"  he  even  attempted  a  continuation  of 
the  Iliad ;  the  one  canto  which  he  completed 
remains  a  magnificent  torso.  The  old  mediaeval 
poem  *«  Reynard  the  Fox  "  he  followed  narrowly  in 
his  rendering,  yet  so  transformed  it  as  to  give  it 
the  sense  of  an  original  work.  He  made  it  more 
artistic,  more-universal ;  after  a  long  oblivion,  reha- 
bilitated, it  became  again  a  possession  of  the  people. 
In  the  lovely  idyl  of  "Hermann  and  Dorothea," 
however,  we  find  Gothe's  epical  masterpiece.  The 
scene  is  the  broad  plain  of  the  Rhine  ;  the  time  his 
own  ;  the  hero  a  young  villager,  in  whose  simple 
manhood  we  behold  nothing  of  heroic  stature  ;  the 
heroine  a  buxom  Teutonic  maid,  meeting  with 
homely  virtue  and  courage  calamities  in  which  war 
has  involved  her.  For  the  rest,  we  have  an  inn- 
keeper and  his  wife,  an  apothecary,  a  village  magis- 
trate, a  parson,  — figures  and  circumstances  homely 


GOTHE    THE  POET.  385 

to  the  last.  But  the  poem  has  all  the  sweetness  of 
the  landscape  through  which  it  moves  ;  the  charac- 
ter-drawing is  as  fine  as  if  sovereigns  and  demi-gods 
were  under  delineation.  The  humble  obstacles  in 
the  way  of  Hermann's  wooing,  the  self-assertion  of 
the  host,  the  foibles  of  the  pill-vender,  the  simple 
wisdom  of  the  parson,  the  confusion  and  sorrow  of 
the  exiles  driven  forth  by  war,  —  all  are  given  with 
the  patient  detail  of  a  Dutch  painting,  wearing  the 
sweetest  idyllic  charm.  And  now  let  us  see  how  the 
same  versatile  hand  could  outline  the  countenances 
of  the  Furies,  sketch  the  unimpassioned  features 
of  the  Parcse,  render  even  the  sublime  converse  of 
the  archangels,  as  they  gather  at  the  throne  of  God. 
Already,  in  the  labors  of  which  an  account  has 
been  given,  it  might  seem  as  if  work  enough  were 
comprised  to  fill  a  long,  laborious  life,  yet  nothing 
has  been  said  about  Gothe's  work  in  a  department 
where,  if  not  at  his  greatest,  he  was  at  any  rate  a 
master  of  the  highest  rank,  and  is  best  known,  —  the 
drama.  If  fragments  as  well  as  completed  plays  are 
counted,  Gothe  is  the  author  of  more  than  fifty 
dramatic  pieces.  He  began  to  write  plays  at  nine- 
teen, at  first  in  the  French  taste  ;  but  even  before 
the  appearance  of  the  « '  Sorrows  of  Werther ' '  he 
had  composed  "  Gotz  von  Berlichingen,"  although 
it  was  not  at  once  published,  —  a  work  which,  in  one 
respect,  he  never  surpassed.  It  was  for  those  days  a 
drama  of  a  rare  kind,  being  in  subject,  treatment,  and 
language  purely  national.  Gotz,  a  robber-knight, 
an  attractive  representative  of  a  class  with  which  we 
have  so  many  associations  of  barbarism,  struggles 


386  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

manfully  in  a  bad  cause,  to  maintain  the  rude  order 
of  things  when,  in  the  sixteenth  century,  the  knell 
of  feudalism  had  been  rung,  and  it  was  time  for  a 
new  world.  Of  poetry  and  plot  we  need  say  noth- 
ing, for  the  ripened  man  here  far  surpassed  the 
achievement  of  the  boy,1  but  as  a  piece  of  noble 
German  it  was  never  exceeded.  Much  as  Lessing 
had  done  for  a  good  prose,  still  what  he  had  written 
was  for  scholars,  not  the  people.  Gothe  was  the 
first  author  of  modern  times  to  write  really  as  the 
people  talked ;  since  Luther  the  language  had  not 
appeared  in  this  living  fulness  and  genuine  German 
form.  There  were  in  it  no  foreign  or  learned  terms, 
no  twisted  or  pompous  sentences  ;  all  was  smooth 
and  simple,  yet  various  ;  it  was  first  demonstrated 
in  *'  Gotz  "  that  German  was  capable  of  presenting 
the  richest  inward  and  outward  life. 

We  can  only  mention  "  Clavigo,"  only  mention 
the  grander  "  Tasso."  The  visitor  to  Brussels,  who 
at  the  same  time  knows  Gothe,  will  go  first  of  all 
to  the  great  square  before  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  in 
which,  upon  the  spot  on  which  he  was  beheaded, 
surrounded  by  the  old  Spanish  buildings  which  wit- 
nessed his  execution,  the  statue  of  the  heroic  Egmont 
rises,  in  ruff  and  cloak,  girt  with  his  sword  as  a 
knight.  On  the  spot  one  can  easily  dream  himself 
away  into  the  past,  until  Alva's  cruel  troopers  stand 
drawn  up  before  the  ancient  buildings,  and  the  cries 
of  the  despairing  Clarchen  resound  outside  in  the 


1  A  late  English  critic,  Mr.  Button,  calls  "Gotz,"  far  the  most 
noble  and  powerful  of  Gothe's  dramas,  declaring  that  here  he  loses 
himself  most  in  his  characters. 


GOTHE    THE  POET.  387 

narrow  streets,  as  she  tries  to  rally  the  citizens  to 
the  rescue  of  her  doomed  lover.  But  we  cannot 
dwell  upon  Egmont.  There  is  space  to  consider 
only  that  Parthenon  of  dramas,  so  purely  exquisite 
in  its  Grecian  finish,  the  "  Iphigenia  ;  "  and  the  one 
which  has  made  the  most  profound  impression  upon 
the  world,  the  marvellous  "Faust." 

"Iphigenia"  was  elaborated  several  times.  It  was 
first  written  in  prose  and  performed  in  Weimar, 
Gothe  himself,  then  a  superb  man,  at  the  height  of 
physical  strength  and  beauty,  with  a  voice,  as  Jean 
Paul  said,  "  now  like  deep-toned  thunder,  now  like 
whispering  rain-drops,"  rendering  the  principal 
male  character,  the  fury-scourged  Orestes.  The 
next  year  it  was  recast  in  a  metrical  form,  and 
several  years  after,  during  his  stay  in  Italy,  the 
poet  used  the  intervals  of  his  visit  to  give  the 
drama  its  final  shape.  It  met  with  a  cold  reception 
even  from  persons  of  refinement;  Gothe  relied 
proudly,  however,  upon  his  own  judgment  and 
taste.  With  the  great  world  it  has  never  become 
popular ;  the  discerning,  however,  have  fully  ac- 
cepted it,  and  it  has  contributed  not  a  little  to  exalt 
in  modern  times  the  sense  of  the  beautiful. 

In  "Iphigenia,"  Gothe  —  at  that  time  full  of 
admiration  for  the  Greeks,  full  of  admiration  for 
Charlotte  von  Stein,  whose  traits  are  fixed  for  im- 
mortality in  the  heroine  —  took  the  legend  which 
Euripides  had  already  made  the  subject  of  a  famous 
play. 

Tantalus,  king  of  Phrygia,  having  been  admit- 
ted to  the  feasts  of  the  gods,  violates  their  con- 


388  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

fidence  by  reciting  what  he  hears  ;  he  is  consigned 
to  tortures  in  Tartarus,  and  a  curse  is  laid  upon 
his  line,  which  sins  and  suffers  generation  after 
generation.  Agamemnon,  king  of  Mycenae,  de- 
scendant of  Tantalus,  when  about  to  offer  as  a 
sacrifice  at  Aulis  his  daughter  Iphigenia,  in  obedi- 
ence to  the  command  of  Diana,  at  the  outset  of  the 
Trojan  war,  is  thwarted  by  the  relenting  goddess, 
who  substitutes  a  hart  for  the  maid,  removing  her 
in  a  cloud  to  Tauris,  where,  though  protected  by 
Thoas,  the  Scythian  king  of  the  land,  she  tarries 
unwillingly,  presiding  over  the  fane  of  the  deity. 
It  has  been  customary  in  Tauris  to  sacrifice  to 
Diana  all  strangers  cast  upon  their  shores,  but 
Thoas,  won  to  mildness  through  the  love  he  has 
come  to  feel  for  Iphigenia,  remits  the  harsh  custom, 
wooing  the  maid  to  become  his  wife.  Meantime, 
the  siege  of  Troy  having  been  accomplished, 
Agamemnon  returns  to  Mycenae,  and  is  presently 
murdered  by  his  unfaithful  spouse,  Clytemnestra, — 
the  curse  of  the  gods  upon  the  race  of  Tantalus 
continuing  in  force.  To  avenge  his  father,  Orestes, 
the  son,  slays  his  mother,  and  is  straightway  driven 
forth,  tortured  by  furies.  Accompanied  by  a  faith- 
ful friend,  Pylades,  they  visit  an  oracle  of  Apollo, 
and  learn  that  Orestes  shall  be  free  from  pursuit 
and  restored  to  his  country  if  he  brings  back  from 
Tauris  the  sister  who  is  kept  there  unwillingly. 

Orestes,  ignorant  of  Iphigenia's  fate,  interprets 
the  oracle  as  referring  to  the  sister  of  Apollo, 
Diana,  whose  image  is  retained  in  the  Taurian  fane, 
and  undertakes  with  Pylades  an  expedition  for  its 


GOTHE   THE  POET.  389 

recovery.  At  this  point  the  drama  of  Gothe  opens. 
Thoas,  offended  at  the  persistent  refusal  of  his  suit 
by  Iphigenia,  becomes  stern,  and  commands  her,  as 
priestess  of  the  fane,  to  sacrifice  upon  the  altar  of 
the  goddess  all  strangers,  according  to  the  ancient 
custom.  Orestes  and  Pylades,  apprehended  upon 
the  shore,  are  delivered  over  to  her  for  that  pur- 
pose. Without  disclosing  her  own  secret,  Iphige- 
nia gains  from  them  news  of  Greece,  —  of  the  re- 
turn and  murder  of  her  father,  Agamemnon,  of  the 
punishment  of  Clytemnestra,  —  learning,  at  length, 
that  it  is  her  brother  Orestes  whom  she  is  doomed 
to  slay.  Induced  by  Pylades,  she  consents  to  de- 
ceive Thoas,  and  allow  them  to  escape.  She 
reveals  herself  at  length  as  the  long-lost  daughter 
of  Agamemnon,  and  passages  of  great  tenderness 
take  place  between  her  and  Orestes,  who,  while 
protected  by  the  sacred  grove  of  Diana,  is  free  from 
the  torture  of  the  Furies.  The  friends  urge  Iphi- 
genia to  flee  with  them  ;  they  find  their  companions 
in  the  ship,  who,  sheltered  by  a  bay,  have  escaped 
the  notice  of  the  Taurians.  The  plan  is  to  rob  the 
shrine  of  Diana's  image  ;  then,  carrying  it  back  to 
Apollo  at  Delphi,  to  dissolve  the  curse,  and  return 
with  Iphigenia  to  My  cense.  But  the  priestess,  re- 
penting of  her  deceit  of  Thoas,  who  has  ever  shown 
himself  kind,  delays.  The  Taurians  approach  ;  the 
ship  is  discovered.  Thoas,  in  wrath,  interrogates 
the  maid.  Iphigenia  rehearses  the  story  of  Orestes 
and  herself,  beseeching  permission  to  depart  with 
her  brother  in  peace.  The  noble-minded  Scythian 
relents.  The  descendants  of  Tantalus  sail  away 


390  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

with  their  followers  ;  the  image  of  Diana  is  left  be- 
hind ;  but  now  it  is  discovered  that  the  slater  men- 
tioned in  the  oracle,  who  tarries  unwillingly  on  the 
Taurian  shore,  can  be  interpreted  to  mean  Iphigenia. 
The  curse  of  the  gods  is  at  length  dissolved,  and 
they  return  in  joy  to  Mycenae. 

It  is  a  work  of  art  in  the  highest  sense,  —  beauti- 
ful in  the  particulars,  beautiful  in  the  proportion  in 
which  these  are  joined.  With  Greek  naturalness 
the  simplest  means  are  employed  to  bring  to  pass 
the  fine  results.  There  were  many  difficulties  in 
the  subject.  It  is  remote  from  modern  sympathies  ; 
it  has  often  been  considered ;  Gothe  had  as  a  rival 
Euripides,  whose  "  Iphigenia,"  with  many  short- 
comings, is  still  a  masterpiece  ;  but  Gothe  was  vic- 
torious. As  regards  the  form,  he  has  penetrated 
so  deeply  into  the  essence  of  Greek  art  that  he 
made  it  his  complete  possession,  and  with  free  in- 
dependence was  able  to  invent  and  write  poetry  in 
its  spirit ;  so  that,  in  conformity  with  Greek  taste, 
he  could  lay  out  a  plan,  present  characters,  develop 
the  action.  Yet  he  was  not  an  imitator ;  he  cre- 
ated, as  it  were,  a  new  dramatic  art,  retaining  from 
the  Greek  only  its  eternal  part,  every  thing  being 
cut  away  belonging  to  the  peculiarities  of  the  people 
and  the  age  ;  this  he  replaced  in  a  way  suitable  to 
his  own  race  and  time.  "  Iphigenia,"  though  Greek 
and  antique,  is  at  the  same  time  German  and 
modern.  Though  faithfully  rendering  the  subject 
in  its  essentials,  he  departed  in  respect  to  traits 
which  were  of  significance  only  to  the  Greeks. 
Among  the  characters,  Iphigenia  is  a  beautiful 


GOTHE    THE  POET.  391 

centre;  on  one  side  the  Greeks,  Orestes  and  Py- 
lades  ;  on  the  other  the  Scythians,  Thoas  and  Arkas, 
in  admirable  proportion.  Pure  humanity  finds  in 
her  a  very  beautiful  expression,  but  she  is  not  super- 
human in  her  freedom  from  weakness.  She  is  for 
a  time  won  over  by  Pylades,  who  advises  her  to 
deceive  Thoas,  but  soon  she  rises  in  her  moral 
greatness  ;  she  determines  to  be  true  to  her  king, 
her  benefactor ;  and  just  this  truth  which,  accord- 
ing to  all  human  foresight,  would  have  led  to  their 
destruction  and  hers  brings  about  a  peaceful,  happy 
solution.  Though  it  was  received  coldly,  Gothe 
was  not  misled  as  to  the  value  of  his  work ;  he 
felt  that  with  this  he  had  reached  the  summit  of 
lofty  art.  What  wonder  if  the  poet  must  stand 
there  in  loneliness  !  Finely  says  the  scholar1  whose 
criticism  of  the  "  Iphigenia  "  I  have,  in  the  foregoing 
consideration,  closely  followed:  "It  is  a  drama 
of  to-day,  and  yet  the  poetic  breath  of  antiquity 
sweeps  through  it,  as  if  one  of  the  greatest  of  the 
Grecian  poets  had  survived  to  our  times,  continu- 
ously developing,  and  the  entire  beauty  of  Greek 
art,  in  its  imperishable  magic,  had  blended  with  the 
gain  of  thousands  of  years  of  advancing  culture  to 
a  harmonious  and  living  whole." 

Here  is  the  song  of  the  Fates,  recalled  by  Iphi- 
genia, as  she  broods  over  the  misfortune  of  which, 
as  one  of  the  accursed  race  of  Tantalus,  she  must 
be  the  subject.  He  who  remembers  the  solemn 
music  of  the  rhythm  with  which,  in  the  original, 

1  Kurz. 


392  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

the  unimpassioned  Fates  give  themselves  voice,  will 
feel  that  any  translation  is  a  feeble  reproduction : 

"Within  my  ears  there  sounds  the  ancient  song,  — 
I  had  forgotten  it  and  willingly,  — 
The  Parcae's  song,  which  they  with  horror  sang 
When  Tantalus  fell  from  his  golden  chair; 
They  suffered  with  their  noble  friend,  and  cruel 
Their  breasts  became,  and  fearful  was  their  song. 
When  I  was  young  I  heard  it  from  my  nurse, — 
I  and  my  brethren,  —  and  I  marked  it  well: 

"  The  gods,  O  ye  mortals, 
"         I  charge  ye  to  fear ! 

They  hold  the  dominion 
In  hands  everlasting ; 
Their  mighty  sway  wielding 
As  pleases  themselves. 

"Let  him  fear  them  twice  o'er 
Whom  they  have  exalted. 
On  cliffs  of  the  cloud-land 
The  seats  are  made  ready 
Around  golden  tables. 

"If  strife  comes  to  pass  then, 
The  guests  are  hurled  headlong, 
Contemned  and  dishonored, 
To  night-haunted  caverns, 
There  vainly  awaiting, 
In  deepest  gloom  fettered, 
For  ne'er  coming  justice. 

"But  they,  ah !  they  tarry 
In  strongholds  eternal, 
Around  their  gold  tables ! 
From  mountain  to  mountain 
They  stride  in  their  vastness. 
From  chasms  infernal 
Steam  up  to  them  sighings 
From  Titans  there  stifled, 
Like  scents  sacrificial,  — 
A  wavering  vapor. 


OOTHE    THE   POET.  393 

"The  gods  turn  their  glances, 
Their  eyes  giving  blessing. 
From  whole  generations ; 
Refuse,  in  the  grandchild, 
The  features  to  witness 
Of  fathers  once  cherished,  — 
The  traits  that  still  speak." 

So  chanted  the  Parcae ; 
The  banished  one  listens, 
In  gloom-oppressed  caverns, 
The  song  comprehending ; 
He  thinks  of  his  children 
And  shaketh  his  head.1 

"  Iphigenia"  stands  thoroughly  finished,  in  all  the 
perfection  of  an  antique  fane,  in  marble  purity, 
in  delicate  proportion  and  grace.  It  remains  for  us 
to  take  up  that  vaster  work  of  Gothe,  which  even 
transcends  the  earth,  gathering  into  its  compass  the 
hosts  of  Heaven  and  shapes  from  Hell  —  the  work 
left  chaotic,  apparently  because  the  poet,  having  at- 
tempted to  embrace  in  it  the  universe,  found  a  mor- 
tal grasp  too  feeble ;  now  lurid  with  sulphurous 
flames  and  resounding  with  the  cries  of  tortured 
spirits  ;  upon  earth,  passing  from  the  carousings  of 
vulgar  revellers  to  the  sanctity  of  the  chamber  of  the 
sweetest  and  purest  of  virgins,  from  the  blasphe- 
mies of  despairing  doubt  to  cathedral  organ-music  ; 
again  leading  off  into  the  blue  spaces  of  the  infinite, 
where  tower  the  archangels,  — the  sublime  "Faust." 
Again  we  must  go  to  Strassburg  ;  the  towering  houses 
rising  into  the  air  from  the  fortifications,  with  the 
cathedral  in  its  heart,  —  the  "  frozen  music  "  which 

1  Iph.,  act  iv,  scene  6. 


394  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

sounds  not,  and  yet  utters  forever,  with  such  rap- 
ture, while  the  centuries  pass,  the  aspiration  of 
its  old-time  builders.  What  associations  the  vener- 
able city  has  we  have  seen.  Is  it  right  to  say  that 
it  is  chiefly  interesting  because  here,  in  the  brain  of 
the  young  Gothe,  the  solemn  "Faust"  was  con- 
ceived? The  Germans  of  to-day  can  say,  "It  is 
the  greatest  work  of  the  greatest  poet  of  all  races 
and  times."1  Its  latest  French  critic2  can  declare 
the  first  part  "  a  treasure  of  poetry,  pathos,  and 
highest  wisdom,  coming  from  a  spirit  inexhaust- 
ible, and  keen  as  steel ;  containing,  from  first  to 
last,  not  a  false  tone  or  weak  line, — perhaps  the 
most  wonderful  work  of  poetry  of  our  century." 
To  this  view  subscribes  one  of  the  greatest  of  Eng- 
lish critics,3  "leaving  out  the  perhaps."  To  such 
a  height  is  it  exalted  by  the  suffrages  of  all  civilized 
races ! 

In  Strassburg  it  was  conceived ;  for  here  it  was 
that  the  old  mediaeval  puppet-play,  from  which  the 
poet  received  the  hint,  asserted  its  power  over 
him,  until,  as  he  says,  "  It  hummed  and  sounded  in 
my  soul  constantly.  I  had,  moreover,  busied  my- 
self with  all  knowledge,  and  had  early  enough  be- 
come convinced  of  its  vanity.  I  had  tried,  too,  all 
kinds  of  life,  and  always  came  back  more  unsatisfied 
and  tormented."  And  again,  when  eighty-two, — 
five  days  before  his  death,  —  he  declared  that  when 
he  was  first  touched  by  the  idea  "  the  whole  thing 


1  Grimm. 
«  Scherer. 
»  Matthew  Arnold. 


GOTHE    THE   POET.  395 

rose  before  his  fancy."4  The  first  and  second  parts 
of  "Faust"  diifer  so  much  that  one  would  hardly 
ascribe  them  to  the  same  poet.  The  first  part, 
with  the  exception  of  a  few  passages,  is  perfectly 
clear,  representing  the  deepest  results  of  human 
thinking  and  the  most  secret  movements  of  the  soul. 
In  the  second  part  every  thing  is  mystically  treated, 
and  we  move  in  the  dark  region  of  allegory.  The 
first  part  is  the  masterpiece  ;  the  second  far  below 
it,  yet  containing  passages  of  the  highest  beauty. 
The  first  part,  it  is  said,  was  complete  in  its  main 
scenes  when  Gothe  was  twenty-five  years  old,  though 
it  was  not  published  in  its  present  form  until  his  old 
age.  The  mediaeval  play  Gothe  used  as  Shakespeare 
used  his  originals,  developing  it  with  the  utmost 
independence,  with  divine  hand  transmuting  the 
mere  dust  of  the  earth  into  something  breathing  and 
soul- warmed. 

Faust,  a  man  greatly  cultivated,  full  of  thirst 
after  knowledge  locked  from  the  ken  of  mortals, 
is  about  to  perish  in  the  striving.  Because  no  sat- 
isfaction is  reached  he  becomes  the  prey  of  doubt, 
which  is  personified  in  Mephistopheles,  the  "spirit 
who  denies."  To  him  he  delivers  himself,  agreeing 
to  resign  to  him  his  soul  if  any  moment  can  bring 
to  him  such  satisfaction  that  he  shall  wish  to  say, 
"  Stay,  thou  art  so  fair."  He  becomes  a  sensualist, 
and  though  he  turns  sickened  from  the  coarse  rev- 
elling in  Auerbach's  cellar,  he  betrays  the  simple- 
hearted  maid  whom  he  wins  to  love  him.  We  cannot 


Letter  to  W.  von  Humboldt. 


396  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

call  him  precisely  vicious,  but  he  loses  the  inner 
power  which  might  have  kept  him  upright  in  the  cir- 
cumstances which  form  around  him.  He  becomes  the 
slayer  of  Margaret's  brother,  Valentine  ;  he  must 
fly,  thus  leaving  Gretchen  to  her  fate.  It  is  due  to 
him  that  she  who  already  has  destroyed  her  mother, 
and  cannot  meet  her  impending  shame,  kills  also 
her  child  in  mad  despair,  and  must  suffer  death  on 
the  scaffold. 

There  is  no  need  to  tell  the  story  more  at  length, 
the  possession,  as  it  is,  of  every  memory.  Even 
Shakespeare's  flawless  mirror  never  caught  the 
world  with  accuracy  more  absolute.  The  accuracy 
is  not  disturbed  by  the  weird  appearing,  from  time 
to  time,  of  shapes  supernatural ;  symbols,  as  these 
are,  of  the  doubt,  of  the  passion,  ennobling  or  de- 
grading, which  benumbs  or  frenzies  the  human 
heart,  and  which,  thus  typified,  becomes  more  real. 
When  one  has  read  "Faust,"  three  figures  —  Faust, 
Mephistopheles,  and  Gretchen  —  remain  henceforth 
unfading  in  the  mind ;  all  else  is  but  background 
and  accessory.  The  spirit  has  never  felt  deeply 
which  can  contemplate  unmoved  the  figure  of  Faust 
as  he  is  first  presented.  The  scholar  honored  for 
his  learning,  the  man  beloved  for  his  beneficence,  so 
rich  in  gift  and  grace,  and  yet  so  disheartened  be- 
fore the  unattainable  that  he  puts  to  his  lips  poison  ! 
Touching  are  the  voices  of  the  cherubs,  types  of  his 
childhood  recollections,  that  recall  him  to  his  better 
self.  For  a  moment  the  cloud  on  his  spirit  clears 
away ;  gathering  again,  after  the  transitory  gleam, 
in  shadow  more  intense.  At  first  it  was  deep  de- 


GOTHE    THE   POET.  397 

pression,  in  which  death  seemed  a  relief;  now  it  be- 
comes despair,  a  universal  doubt,  a  recklessness  that 
is  ready  to  purchase  one  blissful  instant  at  the  price 
of  eternal  torment,  —  yea,  to  desolate  the  world,  if 
only  one  satisfying  moment  can  be  enjoyed.  As 
Faust  surrenders  himself  to  the  fiend,  it  is  only  pity 
that  we  feel.  Every  soul  that  knows  its  own  deeps 
understands  the  tragical  sacrifice,  and  is  thrilled 
with  sympathy.  Then  the  upspringing  within  him 
of  the  sovereign  among  passions  !  It  rages  like  the 
fiercest  of  fevers ;  mad  with  its  incitements,  he 
wraps  himself  and  the  girl  he  has  come  to  love  in 
the  blackest  destruction.  At  the  end  he  staggers 
under  a  weight  of  remorse  how  appalling  !  storming 
upon  the  tempter  with  what  rage  of  denunciation ! 
We  do  not  execrate  him  ;  we  pity  him.  The  strong, 
thoughtful,  passionate  man,  who  has  passed  onward 
through  the  inevitable  mortal  course  of  sin,  suffer- 
ing, doubt,  repentance,  beholds  in  the  career  of 
Faust  a  typical  rendering  of  the  tragedy  of  his  own 
life,  of  power  and  truth  almost  superhuman. 

Turning  to  Mephistopheles,  there  is  no  doubt  that 
Gothe,  in  the  case  of  this  wonderful  conception,  as 
always,  drew  to  some  extent  from  the  life.  It 
comes  upon  us  as  something  most  grotesque,  when 
the  critic  to  whom  in  this  chapter  we  refer  so  often l 
gives  it  as  his  opinion  that  at  first  the  original  for 
this  prince  among  devils  was  no  other  than  Gothe' s 
venerated  friend,  that  tower  of  virtue,  Herder. 
He  was  the  first,  says  the  writer,  who  subordinated 

1  Grimm 


398  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

Gothe.  What  makes  Mephistopheles  so  great  is 
that  he  knows  every  thing,  —  not  only  the  evil  but 
the  good  ;  that  he  unfolds  to  Faust  the  abysses  of 
being,  extends  before  him  all  intellectual  and  earthly 
joys.  All  that  Herder  did  for  Gothe.  Mephis- 
topheles, indeed,  makes  the  revelation  only  as  in 
mockery,  to  show  that  great  and  small,  good  and 
evil,  are  identical,  and  the  whole  monstrous  sum  a 
cipher.  Herder  did  not  go  so  far,  of  course.  Other 
traits  were  taken  from  Merck,  a  man  of  keen  intel- 
lect, who  became  afterwards  Gothe 's  friend,  and  af- 
fected his  development  powerfully.  Merck  was  a 
critic  of  the  sharpest,  but  his  criticism  destroyed, 
nowhere  constructed  ;  he  had  no  creative  power,  but 
was  simply  ««  a  spirit  that  denied."  He  too  was  a 
man  of  most  respectable  position  and  character, 
paymaster  in  the  principality  of  Hesse  Darmstadt.1 
It  is  laughable  to  think  of  the  chagrin  these  two 
men  would  feel — the  pious  and  spotless  head  of  the 
Weimar  church,  and  the  public  official  of  unblem- 
ished reputation  —  if  they  could  rise  from  their 
graves  and  learn  that  they  were  believed  to  be  the 
originals  after  whom  their  brilliant  friend  had  drawn 
the  very  prince  of  devils. 

It  is  plausible  that  Gothe  may  have  obtained  a 
few  hints  from  Herder  and  Merck,  but  the  essential, 
dark  lineaments  of  Mephistopheles,  and  the  lurid 
atmosphere  of  Hell  through  which  they  are  made 
to  appear,  had  a  different  origin.  It  is  the  imme- 
morial nightmare  that  haunts  forever  the  human 


Goedeke. 


GOTHE    THE   POET.  399 

spirit,  caught  at  last  in  the  brain  of  the  most  subtle 
and  refined  of  the  sons  of  mei>.  Some  such  con- 
ceptioif  as  that  of  Satan  has  been  the  most  usual 
solution  of  the  problem  of  evil.  Before  him  who 
undertakes  the  study  of  the  world's  religious  faiths 
pass  a  hundred  uncouth  phantoms  from  savage  su- 
perstitions, together  with  the  Ahriman,  Tjphon, 
Loki,  Eblis,  of  more  elevated  beliefs.  In  the  Chris- 
tian world  the  conception  of  the  devil  appears  in  in- 
numerable shapes,  —  in  poems,  in  the  creeds  of  dif- 
ferent sects,  in  the  thoughts  of  various  ages  and 
races,  in  the  speculations  of  philosophers.  Every 
mind,  indeed,  gives  him  a  peculiar  coloring,  accord- 
ing to  its  bent  and  degree  of  development.  To  the 
ignorant  peasant,  or  the  wild  proselyte  from  barbar- 
ism, he  is  a  figure  of  the  rudest.  The  Celt,  bap- 
tized, but  followed  and  haunted  by  shades  from  his 
forsaken  creed,  blends  Druidic  superstitions  with 
the  black  spirit  of  his  new  faith.  The  converted 
Polynesian  establishes  some  bloody  phantom  from 
his  hideous  traditions  among  his  new  ideas.  In  our 
own  stock,  an  Oriental  idea  becomes  amalgamated 
with  the  malignant  sprites  and  giants  of  the  Teu- 
tonic mythology.  He  flits  from  century  to  cen- 
tury,—  now  haunting  the  cell  of  the  scared  monk  ; 
now  fighting  with  the  bold  reformer  ;  now  swooping 
upon  the  city  in  the  thunder-storm,  to  be  opposed 
by  the  peal  of  the  cathedral  bells  ;  now  beheld  from 
afar,  in  fancy,  by  the  shivering  peasant,  hovering 
luridly  amid  witch-fires  upon  the  Brocken  peak.  At 
length  he  is  taken  up  by  master  minds.  Milton 
celebrates  his  baleful  glory  at  the  head  of  innumer- 


400  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

able  shadowy  minions.  Then  —  darkest,  subtlest, 
most  terrible  portrayal  of  all  —  stands  forth  the 
mocking  spectre  of  Gothe !  • 

The  scenes  in  which  Gretchen  appears,  from  first 
to  last,  are  among  the  most  beautiful  in  poetry. 
The  impression  that  she  makes  at  once  is  of  the 
most  simple,  artless  sweetness.  The  genius  of 
Gothe  is  never  so  manifest,  perhaps,  as  in  the  por- 
trayal of  women.  Gretchen  was  his  first  and  last 
type,  sketched  at  Strassburg  in  his  impulsive  youth, 
still  occupying  him  when  his  hand  grew  palsied. 
From  first  to  last  she  was  unchanged.  Without 
doubt  Gretchen  may  be  referred  to  Frederika.1 
Gothe  was  ill  at  ease  on  account  of  his  treatment  of 
her.  Not  the  slightest  indication  has  come  down 
to  show  that  the  connection  between  Gothe  and  the 
beautiful  Alsatian  maid  trenched  upon  the  coarse  or 
immoral.  It  cannot  be  supposed  for  a  moment. 
He  simply  broke  her  heart  by  arousing  in  her  the 
feeling  that  their  relation  was  to  be  eternal,  then 
one  day  saying,  "  Enough,  farewell ;  free  yourself 
as  you  can."  His  cruelty  to  Frederika  he  pre- 
sents symbolically  in  the  experience  of  Gretchen. 
Pure  as  a  babe,  innocently  fresh  and  joyous,  she  is 
overshadowed  in  her  quiet  pathway  by  the  gloomy 
pinions  of  her  fate.  No  altar-fire  kindled  by  the 
hands  of  vestals  is  purer  than  the  love  which  is 
lighted  within  her  soul ;  not  guilty,  but  utterly  over- 
powered, she  is  broken  and  falls.  Where  shall  we 
parallel  that  climax  of  pathos  as  scene  after  scene 

1  Grimm. 


GOTHE    THE   POET.  401 

unfolds  itself !  Her  pretty  archness  at  the  first  in- 
terview before  the  church,  the  childlike  pleasure 
over  the  casket,  the  instinctive  shrinking  of  her 
spirit,  heavenly  pure,  from  Mephistopheles,  the 
plucking  of  the  petals  from  the  flower,  her  utter 
self-renunciation  in  the  extremity  of  her  love,  the 
involuntary  slaying  of  her  mother,  the  whisperings 
of  the  evil  spirit  in  her  ear,  interrupted  by  the 
chanting  of  the  "  Dies  Irse,"  as  she  tries  to  pray 
in  the  cathedral,  then  at  last  the  agony  in  the  dun- 
geon !  One  may  read  that  scene  scores  of  times, 
yet,  if  his  heart  is  tender,  never  dare  to  approach  it 
without  a  special  fortifying  of  the  eyelids.  If  a 
more  moving  portrayal  of  utter  woe  has  ever  'been 
drawn,  I  know  not  where  to  find  it.  Poor,  crazed 
Gretchen,  tortured  by  conscience,  yet  innocent  as 
at  first,  "  whose  only  sin  has  been  a  good  illusion," 
in  her  frenzy  beholding  the  flames  of  Hell  roaring 
at  the  threshold,  the  phantom  of  her  dead  mother 
accusing  her,  the  circumstances  of  the  drowning  of 
her  babe  rehearsing  themselves  in  her  thought,  the 
execution  that  awaits  her  looming  up  in  her  fancy 
with  all  its  gloomy  belongings  —  the  faces  of  the 
waiting  crowd,  the  staff  breaking  as  the  signal,  the 
gleam  of  the  steel,  —  it  is  indeed  a  heart-break  made 
audible  !  The  relief,  at  length,  from  the  solemn 
voices  that  sound  from  the  air  while  no  presence 
is  visible,  "She  is  judged  —  she  is  saved;"  then 
the  impression  of  utter,  ineffaceable  love  given  in 
one  masterly  touch !  The  sufferer  is  taken  up 
among  the  angels,  Faust  claimed  by  Mephistoph- 
eles, the  scene  all  vacant.  Then  the  sounding 

26 


402  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

in  of  Margaret's  despairing  voice  as  she  cries  after 
her  lover,  even  from  the  bliss  into  which  she  has 
ascended!  No  gesture,  no  presence,  —  only  a  de- 
spairing cry,  the  agonized  utterance  of  a  name.  It 
is  the  pinnacle  of  Gothe's  achievement ;  here  he 
touched  the  stars,  —  not  before,  and  not  after. 

When,  in  his  eighty-second  year,  Gothe  put  the 
last  touches  to  Faust,  he  felt  himself  its  imperfec- 
tion. "  I  have  laid  out  too  much  work,"  he  said  ; 
"  strength  at  last  fails."  The  second  part  is  much 
inferior  to  the  first,  though  one  might  hesitate  to 
subscribe  to  the  judgment  that  "  the  first  part  is  the 
only  one  that  counts."  l  As  he  grew  old,  although 
still  of  wonderful  vitality,  a  certain  decadence  of  his 
power  became  manifest  in  this  way :  he  was  be- 
trayed into  writing  in  riddles,  enveloping  his  meaning 
in  symbols  and  obscurities.  Certain  critics  had  in- 
sisted in  interpreting  symbolically  what  had  been  ex- 
pressed with  perfect  plainness.  He  humored  this 
disposition,  and  at  last  employed  a  symbolical  form 
in  good  earnest.  In  particular  did  he  do  this  in  the 
second  part  of  "  Faust "  and  the  "  Mahrchen,"  and 
much  time  and  acuteness  has  been  spent  in  trying  to 
ascertain  the  meaning  that  lies  beneath  the  dark 
language.  Carlyle,  indeed,  when  a  young  man,  at- 
tempted to  justify  this  way  of  writing,  and  proceed- 
ing upon  his  theory,  turned  presently  to  the  compo- 
sition of  "  Sartor  Resartus,"  obscuring  his  meaning 
in  a  glare  of  fiery  vapor,  and  so  lending  it  impress- 
iveness.  Let  the  practice  have  such  justification  as 


1  Matthew  Arnold. 


GOTHE   THE  POET.  403 

it  can,  yet  it  is  right  to  say  we  have  reached  a  time 
when  the  authority  of  the  pragmatic  Scotch  genius 
is  no  longer  to  be  held  absolute  in  literature  any 
more  than  in  matters  of  politics  and  social  science. 
He,  more  than  a  half  a  century  since,  drew  back 
the  curtain  which  veiled  from  English  eyes  the 
great  literature  of  Germany.  The  debt  we  owe  him 
is  immense,  but  many  of  his  critical  judgments  we 
cannot  to-day  do  otherwise  than  question.  The  pas- 
sage quoted  may  contain  a  grain  of  truth,  but  this, 
too,  is  well  said:  "  The  poet  who  makes  symbol- 
ism the  substance  and  the  purpose  of  his  work  has 
mistaken  his  vocation.  The  whole  Greek  drama  has 
been  interpreted  into  symbols  by  modern  scholars. 
The  Iliad  has  been  so  interpreted ;  Shakespeare's 
plays  have  been  interpreted  into  modern  plati- 
tudes." *  *  *  "Indeed,  symbolism  being  in 
its  very  nature  arbitrary,  the  indication  of  a  mean- 
ing not  directly  expressed,  but  arbitrarily  thrust  un- 
der the  expression,  there  is  no  limit  to  the  power  of 
interpretation.  It  is  quite  certain  that  poets  had 
not  the  meanings  which  their  commentators  find."1 
Over  the  second  part  of  "Faust"  the  darkness  is 
so  deep  that  commentators  never  agree  as  to  the 
truth  concealed;  so  too  of  the  story  of  "The 
Snake,"  and  the  second  part  of  "  Wilhelm  Meister." 
"They  are  dead  of  a  hypertrophy  of  reflection,  a 
mere  mass  of  symbols,  hieroglyphics,  sometimes  even 
mystifications.  What  decadence,  good  heavens ! 
and  what  a  melancholy  thing  is  old  age  !  "  So  ex- 

1  Lewes. 


404  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

claims  Scherer,  with  the  passion  of  his  race  for 
clearness.  We  may  think  he  is  somewhat  excessive, 
but  the  clear-headed  reader  must  be  content  if  he 
finds  now  and  then  a  beautiful  fragment  in  the 
midst  of  confusion,  without  attempting  to  unravel 
plan  or  plot.  For  a  spectacle  of  perfectly  idle  bick- 
ering and  waste  of  ingenuity  the  comments  of  cer- 
tain Hegelian  critics  may  be  referred  to,  who  have 
occupied  themselves  with  Gothe's  darker  writings.1 

Against  the  opinion  of  Carlyle  may  be  set  that  of 
another  critic,  of  weight  hardly  less:  "All  that 
Scherer  says  about  the  ruinousness  to  a  poet  of  sym- 
bols, hieroglyphics,  mystifications,  is  just.  When 
Carlyle  praises  'Helena'  for  being  not  a  type  of 
one  thing,  but  a  vague,  fluctuating,  fitful  adumbra- 
tion of  many,  he  praises  it  for  what  is,  in  truth,  its 
fatal  defect.  The  «  Mahrchen,'  again,  on  which  he 
heaps  such  praise,  calling  it  *  one  of  the  notablest 
performances  produced  for  the  last  thousand  years, 
a  performance  in  such  a  style  of  grandeur  and 
celestial  brilliancy  and  life  as  the  western  imagina- 
tion has  not  elsewhere  reached,'  the  '  Mahrchen, ' 
woven  throughout  of  symbol,  hierogtyphic,  mystifi- 
cation, is  therefore  a  piece  of  solemn  inanity,  on 
which  a  man  of  Gothe's  powers  could  never  have 
wasted  his  time,  but  for  his  lot  having  been  cast  hi 
a  nation  which  has  never  lived."  2 

Gothe,  then,  as  a  poet  could  sometimes  waste 
himself  writing  in  riddles  ;  as  a  prose  writer  he 


1  Specimens  of  their  wrangling  are  given  in  the  notes  to  Bayard 
Taylor's  "Faust." 
1  Matthew  Arnold. 


GOTHE    THE   POET.  405 

could  be  prolix  and  tedious.  What  is  it  but  to  say, 
however,  that,  like  Homer,  he  sometimes  nodded  ! 
Making  every  necessary  deduction,  what  miracles  of 
achievement  I  It  seems  right  to  declare  that  no  man 
more  magnificently  gifted  has  ever  been  born  into 
the  world.  Here  is  a  passage  from  Heine,  its  elo- 
quence touched  with  a  trace  of  heathen  bitterness  : 
' '  The  correspondence  between  personality  and 
genius  which  one  likes  to  see  in  extraordinary 
men  existed  wonderfully  in  Gothe.  His  presence 
was  as  remarkable  as  his  utterance,  —  harmonious, 
cheerful,  nobly  symmetrical,  —  and  one  could  study 
Greek  art  in  him  as  in  an  antique.  This  body,  full 
of  dignity,  never  crooked  itself  in  worm-like  Chris- 
tian humiliation ;  the  features  of  his  face  were  not 
distorted  by  Christian  self-crushing ;  those  eyes  of 
his  were  not  timid  with  any  Christian  sense  of  sin, — 
not  devotional,  or  heaven-gazing,  or  tremulous.  No, 
his  eyes  were  quiet  as  those  of  a  god.  It  is  the 
mark  of  the  gods  that  their  gaze  is  firm,  their  eyes 
not  darting  this  way  and  that  in  uncertainty.  The 
eye  of  Gothe  was  as  divine  in  his  old  age  as  in  his 
youth.  Time  could  cover  his  head  with  snow,  but 
not  bend  it.  He  always  bore  it  proud  and  high ; 
and  when  he  spoke  his  form  always  dilated;  and 
when  he  stretched  forth  his  hand,  it  was  as  if  he 
could  mark  out  with  his  finger  the  paths  wherein 
the  stars  of  heaven  should  wander.  About  his 
mouth  a  frigid  stamp  of  egotism  might  have  been 
noticed,  but  this  trait  belongs  to  the  immortal  gods, 
and  most  to  the  father  of  the  gods,  the  great 
Jupiter,  with  whom  I  like  to  compare  Gothe. 


406  'GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

Verily,  when  I  visited  him  in  Weimar,  and  stood  op- 
posite to  him,  I  looked  involuntarily  to  one  side  to 
see  whether  I  should  not  behold  the  eagle  with  the 
thunderbolts  in  his  beak.  I  came  near  addressing 
him  in  Greek,  but  when  I  saw  he  understood  Ger- 
man, I  told  him  in  German  that  the  plums  on  the 
road  between  Jena  and  Weimar  tatted  very  good. 
In  so  many  long  winter  nights  I  had  considered 
what  sublime  and  profound  things  I  would  say  to 
Gothe,  if  I  ever  saw  him  ;  and  when  I  did  see  him, 
at  last,  I  told  him  the  plums  of  Saxony  tasted  very 
good  !  And  Gothe  smiled,  —  smiled  with  the  same 
lips  with  which  he  had  once  kissed  the  lovely  Leda, 
Europa,  Danae,  and  so  many  other  princesses,  and 
and  indeed  common  nymphs  !  "  * 

A  famous  contemporary  physiologist2  declared 
that  "  never  did  he  meet  with  a  man  in  whom  bodily 
and  mental  organization  were  so  perfect  as  in  Gothe. 
Not  only  was  the  prodigious  strength  of  vitality  re- 
markable in  him,  but  equally  so  the  perfect  balance 
of  functions.  No  function  was  predominant ;  all 
worked  together  for  the  continuance  of  a  marvellous 
balance."  His  power  was  wonderfully  preserved 
from  decay.  The  "octogenarian  Jupiter"  had  in 
his  massive  and  erect  frame  abundant  life.  He  was 
still  able  to  love  and  to  attract  love.  Herder  called 
his  mind  a  universal  mind.  Among  the  sons  of 
men  there  is  no  other  such  example  of  versatility 
combined  with  the  highest  excellence.  Scherer, 

1  Ueber  Deutschland. 
*  Hufeland. 


OOTHE   THE   POET.  407 

whose  admiration,  as  we  have  seen,  is  discriminating, 
declares  that  although  he  has  not  Shakespeare's 
power,  his  genius  was  more  vast,  more  universal 
than  Shakespeare's.  As  a  man  of  action  his  career 
was  a  creditable  one.  As  has  been  said,  the  world 
of  Weimar  knew  him  mainly  as  the  minister  of  the 
sovereign,  untiring  in  attention  to  even  the  smallest 
details.  He  directed  with  wisdom  and  benevolence, 
for  a  long  series  of  years,  the  affairs  of  the  little 
state,  seeking  in  all  directions  the  good  of  the  land. 
"  No  case  was  ever  known  where,  after  his  advice 
had  been  followed,  things  took  a  bad  issue." l 

In  the  domain  of  intellect,  think  of  the  compass 
of  his  labors  !  He  had,  to  be  sure,  his  limitations. 
In  art  he  could  be  neither  great  painter  nor 
musician,  though  he  faithfully  tried.  Pure  mathe- 
matics was  a  field  he  left  untouched;  and  in 
metaphysics,  except  that,  like  Lessing,  he  held 
Spinoza  in  the  utmost  honor,  he  showed  indiffer- 
ence. In  natural  science,  however,  he  stands  with 
the  highest.  We  cannot,  indeed,  ascribe  to  him 
the  exclusive  glory  of  the  discoveries  that  have  been 
mentioned.  Columbus  did  not  first  find  America ; 
Bacon  did  not  first  teach  the  inductive  philosophy  ; 
Luther  did  not  begin  the  Reformation;  we  may 
find  in  preceding  writings  anticipations  of  the 
* '  Laokoon ' '  of  Lessing.  So  with  the  name  of  Gothe 
must  the  candid  biographer  mention  others.  But 
he  belongs  with  the  eminent  founders  of  philosophic 
botany  and  comparative  anatomy,  in  many  a  preg- 

1  Grimm. 


408  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

nant  sentence  foreshadowing  the  great  theories 
whose  elaboration  is  the  glory  of  the  scientists  of 
to-day.  He  was  far  before  his  time,  and  is  placed 
by  the  latest  writers l  in  a  position  coordinate  with 
Darwin  in  England,  and  Lamarck  in  France,  among 
the  supreme  leaders. 

Turning  to  Gothe's  literary  activity,  we  may  say 
it  was  fairly  appalling.  What  he  accomplished  is 
in  itself  a  literature  of  almost  universal  range. 
History,  biography,  criticism,  letters,  narrative,  ro- 
mance, drama,  lyric,  epic,  idyl,  epigram,  — in  prose 
and  poetry  there  is  scarcely  a  department  unrepre- 
sented. Even  his  admirers  confess,  "  he  has  writ- 
ten with  a  feebleness  which  it  is  to  be  hoped  no 
German  will  emulate  again;"2  but  again  it  is  said, 
with  probable  truth,  that  every  piece  bears  some- 
where the  stamp  of  his  genius,  and  some  are  per- 
fection. Such  capacity  for  impression,  such  power 
of  expression!  "  Poetry,"  he  said,  "is  the  urn 
wherein  are  contained  for  me  the  ashes  of  past 
sufferings."  He  might  have  said,  as  well,  the  wine 
of  past  joys ;  the  universal  human  experience  he 
caught  unto  himself,  to  store  it  in  imperishable 
works. 

Of  Gothe's  character  what  shall  be  said?  A 
most  difficult  question  to  answer,  steering  his  way, 
as  one  must,  between  extremes  of  eulogy  on  one 
hand  and  detraction  on  the  other ;  looking  carefully 
to  ascertain  what  are  the  requirements  of  eternal 


1  Ernst  Haeckel:   "  Schopfungsgeschichte."    Helmholtz. 
1  Lewes. 


GO  THE    THE   POET. 


409 


moral  laws,  and  what  merely  the  unstable  prescrip- 
tions of  human  society,  —  one  thing  yesterday, 
something  far  different  to-day.  He  has  been  called 
a  completely  unmoral  genius  who  showed  an  impar- 
tial sympathy  for  good  and  evil  alike,1  whose  writ- 
ings invariably  repel,  at  first,  English  readers  with 
English  ideas  of  life  and  duty.  He  has  often  been 
described  as  a  heathen;  took  pleasure  indeed  in 
assuming  that  name,  enthralled  as  he  was  by  his 
admiration  for  the  ancients.  We  are  not  to  under- 
stand, however,  that  he  was  an  atheist.  The  doc- 
trines of  a  personal  God  and  the  immortality  of 
the  soul  he  held  unswervingly,  and  often  declared 
them.  As  regards  his  course  in  life,  there  is 
abundant  evidence  that  his  heart  was  tender ;  he 
had  a  helpful  spirit,  and  his  great  activity  was  fol- 
lowed by  abundant  beneficent  result.  The  concep- 
tion of  living  for  others,  however,  probably  never 
occurred  to  him.  He  was  kindly,  but  not  self- 
devoting,  and  seldom  interfered  with  his  calm  proc- 
ess of  self-culture,  for  another.2 

It  must  be  admitted  that  what  we  call  morality 
is  to  some  extent  a  matter  of  convention,  the  con- 
duct which  it  prescribes  in  one  age  or  land  dif- 


1  Shall  we  say  that  this  is  a  characteristic  of  all  great  poets?  "  A 
true  poet  goes  through  the  world  like  a  child,  who  knows  of  no  se- 
crets, and  even  repeats  the  horrible  with  his  innocent  lips,  without 
a  feeling  of  what  it  means.  With  hands  how  pure  does  Shake- 
speare unfold  the  most  terrible  crimes  before  us !  Gothe's  poems 
contain  the  most  sublime  that  has  been  said  in  the  German  tongue ; 
but  with  antique  cynic  plainness  he  exposes,  too,  the  opposite. 
"Whatever  stirs  within  him  must  be  expressed." —  Grimm. 

3  Hutton. 


410  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

fering  in  others.  To  the  Hindoo  there  can  be  no 
greater  ethical  shortcoming  than  the  eating  of  in- 
terdicted flesh;  to  the  Puritan  theft  is  hardly  a 
more  definite  dereliction  than  "  Sabbath-break- 
ing;" to  the  Pharisee  the  omission  of  the  tithe  of 
mint,  anise,  or  cummin  is  more  culpable  than  a 
breach  of  trust.  But  no  one  who  respects  human 
happiness  and  social  order  can  believe  that  Gothe 
was  simply  unconventional.  A  few  such  torches  of 
passion  as  he,  flaming  up  so  readily  and  kindling 
such  conflagration  in  others,  and  the*  world  would 
be  consumed.  His  passion  uttered  itself  in  sighs 
of  exquisite  harmony,  whose  music  will  never  lose 
its  charm ;  but  think  of  the  hearts  that  broke  for 
him  and  gave  no  sound  I  He  was  a  transcendent 
creature  in  body,  mind,  and  soul ;  quite  transcend- 
ental too  in  much  of  his  course.  With  our  ideas, 
in  many  of  his  relations  we  cannot  think  him  inno- 
cent ;  and  leaving  out  the  question  of  moral  guilt, 
such  capricious  heats  and  coolings  cannot  be  recon- 
ciled with  the  noblest  manly  dignity,  however  leni- 
ently we  may  judge  them  in  a  youth 

A  grave  charge,  from  which  Gothe  cannot  be 
easily  cleared,  is  that  he  was  disposed  to  play  the 
sycophant  before  men  of  rank  and  power.  In  the 
battle  of  Jena  the  cause  of^his  patron,  Karl  August, 
was  overthrown,  Weimar  cruelly  plundered  by  the 
French,  and  Gothe  himself  exposed  to  insult ;  his 
life  indeed  was  in  danger,  but  he  was  saved  by  the 
courage  and  energy  of  Christiane.  Summoned 
shortly  after  to  attend  upon  Napoleon  at  Erfurt,  he 
promptly  proceeded  thither,  receiving  with  pleasure 


GOTHE    THE   POET.  411 

the  conqueror's  attentions.  At  other  times  his  re- 
spect for  the  mighty  of  the  earth  was  carried  to 
great  excess.  When  visited  by  the  king  of  Bavaria, 
a  man  of  character  far  from  admirable,  and  whom 
Heinrich  Heine  lashed  as  with  a  whip  of  scorpions 
in  one  of  the  bitterest  of  satires,  Gothe  felt  his 
head  go  round  with  giddiness.  "It  is  no  light 
matter,"  he  said,  "  to  work  out  the  powerful  im- 
pression produced  by  the  king's  presence, — to  assim- 
ilate it  internally.  It  is  difficult  to  keep  one's 
balance  and  not  lose  one's  head."  Of  a  letter  from 
the  same  personage  he  said  :  * '  I  thank  Heaven  for 
it,  as  for  a  quite  special  favor."1  These  incidents 
cannot  be  considered  exceptional ;  in  many  ways 
Gothe  is  simple  and  manly,  but  there  is  sometimes 
a  singular  apparent  snobbishness.  Matthew  Ar- 
nold's defence  of  the  poet  is  very  amusing,  but  per- 
haps the  best  that  can  be  made.  *'  It  is  not  snob- 
bishness," he  says,  "  but  his  German  *  corporalism.' 
A  disciplinable  and  much-disciplined  people,  with 
little  humor,  and  without  experience  of  a  great 
national  life,  regard  its  official  authorities  in  this 
devout  and  awe-struck  way.  To  a  German  it  seems 
profane  and  licentious  to  smile  at  his  Dogberry.  He 
takes  him  seriously  and  solemnly  at  his  own  valu- 
ation." 

Can  we  say  that  Gothe  was  inspired  with  any 
great  moral  idea?  In  Luther's  case  the  thought 
was  to  break  the  force  of  what  he  felt  to  be  super- 
stition, and  he  would  have  gone  to  the  stake  rather 


1  Eckermann. 


412  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

than  yield  one  hair's  breadth.  With  Lessing  it 
was  the  ardent  pursuit  of  truth,  and  his  life  was  one 
long  martyrdom  in  its  behalf.  With  Schiller  it  was 
passionate  love  for  freedom,  felt  from  first  to  last. 
Gothe  cared  little  for  the  French  revolution,  which 
all  lovers  of  liberty  believed  at  first  was  so  full  of 
promise  for  man.  Strange  as  it  seems  to  us,  he 
sometimes  uttered  himself  as  if  he  believed  in 
the  fragmentary  Germany  of  his  time  as  the  best 
thing  possible.  "  What  has  made  this  country 
great,"  he  said,  "but  the  culture  which  is  spread 
through  it  in  such  a  marvellous  manner,  and  per- 
vades equally  all  parts  of  the  realm?  And  this 
culture,  does  it  not  emanate  from  the  numerous 
courts  which  grant  it  support  and  patronage  ?  Sup- 
pose we  had  had  in  Germany  for  centuries  but 
two  capitals,  Vienna  and  Berlin,  or  but  one?  I 
should  like  to  know  how  it  would  have  fared  with 
German  civilization,  or  even  with  that  general  well- 
being  which  goes  hand  in  hand  with  civilization?" 
And  yet  what  did  he  do  to  sustain  this  order  in 
which  he  seems  to  have  believed,  when  it  was  threat- 
ened? During  the  campaign  of  Valmy  he  was  pres- 
ent with  the  army  at  the  request  of  his  sovereign, 
but  he  employed  his  time  in  far-away  studies, 
without  enthusiasm  for  the  cause  at  stake.  Shortly 
after  Jena  he  received  complacently  the  homage  of 
Napoleon,  and  while  the  cannon  of  Leipsig  were 
thundering,  wrote  an  epilogue  for  an  actress.  No 
great  moral  ideas  inspired  him  here,  or  at  other 
times,  or  in  other  directions.  Can  we  say  it  was 
part  of  his  transcendency  ?  He  moved  among  mor- 


.GOTHE    THE   POET.  413 

tals  like  one  of  the  gods  of  the  classic  paganism  he 
admired  so  much,  noting  the  world's  phenomena 
with  a  glance  as  keen  as  the  very  eagle  of  Jove. 
Like  Jove  himself,  he  found  from  time  to  time  his 
los  and  Semeles,  in  whose  arms  he  pleased  him- 
self with  the  thrills  of  an  Olympian  passion,  and 
who  often  were  so  sadly  consumed  as  ,he  magnifi- 
cently revealed  himself.  Of  each  throb  that  he 
felt  it  pleased  him  to  make  a  record,  as  of  all  his 
sharp  eyes  beheld.  But  with  it  all  there  was  a  sort 
of  supernal  indifference  to  the  world's  ongoings,  as 
if  they  were  the  concerns  of  a  race  with  which  he 
had  little  part;  he  might  feel  vivid  curiosity,  but 
need  take  no  deep  interest. 

Can  we  feel  such  love  and  enthusiasm  for  him  as 
for  moral  heroes  like  Luther,  Lessing,  and  Schiller? 
I  think  not.  He  was  a  creature  somewhat  too 
supernal.  Can  we  say  that  the  fact  that  he  was 
merely  a  wonderful  witness,  an  eye  to  see,  a  tongue 
to  report,  —  not  a  soul  thrilled  with  great  ideas,  and 
teaching  them  to  the  world,  —  exalts  him  as  a  poet 
and  artist?  Yes.  Such  witnesses,  at  any x  rate, 
have  been  the  singers  whom  the  world  places  high- 
est. Always  hidden  and  unknown  is  the  spirit  of 
Shakespeare  behind  the  magnificent  tapestry  which 
he  holds  extended,  whereon  are  imprinted  the  per- 
fect counterparts  of  men  and  women,  as  various,  as 
individual,  as  many-colored.  So  too  with  Homer 
it  is  marvellous  witnessing;  so  too  with  Gothe. 
He  has  been  called  an  objective  poet.  The  world 
impressed  itself  upon  him  with  extraordinary  power ; 
these  impressions  he  rendered  again  with  power  as 


414  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

great.  In  particular  is  "Faust"  a  Shakespearian 
picture  ;  the  manly,  the  coarse,  the  satauic,  the  inef- 
fably pure,  set  side  by  side,  the  soul  of  the  poet 
meantime  withdrawn  behind  the  veil.  If  art  is  the 
reproduction  of  nature,  Gothe  was  the  peerless 
artist.  The  type  to  whom  we  now  proceed  was 
rather  teacher  and  preacher.  He  was  subjective, 
starting  from  ideas  within  himself,  for  which  he  was 
thrilled  with  the  noblest  enthusiasm,  the  represent- 
ation of  the  universe  remaining  secondary.  Let  us 
place  Schiller  now  side  by  side  with  Gothe  in  the 
contrast  in  which  they  themselves  felt  that  they 
stood.  In  this  way  we  can  learn  to  know  them 
both. 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

SCHILLER. 

The  effects  of  the  Thirty  Years'  War  have  not  yet 
disappeared  from  Germany.  One  hundred  years 
ago,  during  the  boyhood  of  Friedrich  Schiller,  they 
were  much  more  plain.  The  land  had  not  recov- 
ered from  the  depopulation  which  it  had  undergone  ; 
the  destroyed  cities  had  not  been  rebuilt ;  through- 
out the  body  politic  a  numbness,  as  it  were,  pre- 
vailed from  the  blows  of  the  terrible  scourge  with 
which  it  had  been  beaten. 

Schiller  was  born  in  1759,  at  the  village  of  Mar- 
bach  in  Wirtemberg,  and  the  circumstances  of  his 
father's  family  and  his  own  early  life  are  all  typical, 
reflecting  the  sadness  of  the  time,  which  was  to  give 
way  at  length  to  something  better.  Poor  Wirtem- 
berg, depleted  in  every  way  by  the  Thirty  Years' 
War,  until  no  trace  was  left  of  the  magnificent 
Swabia  of  the  former  time,  which  the  Hohenstauffen 
had  loved  and  ruled,  had  been  given  over  to  princes 
of  ruthless  selfishness.  The  father  of  Schiller  was 
the  dependent,  almost  the  serf,  of  the  reigning  duke. 
He  had  been  an  officer  of  low  grade,  serving  in  the 
Netherlands  and  during  the  Seven  Years'  War. 
Schiller's  mother  was  the  daughter  of  a  baker  and 
innkeeper,  and  met  her  fate  while  Schiller's  father 


416  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

was  stationed  as  a  recruiting  officer  in  her  native 
village.  The  couple  draw  from  us  most  cordial  re- 
spect, as  they  proceed  onward  through  the  hard- 
ships of  a  lowly  station.  Besides  Friedrich,  their 
family  consisted  of  three  daughters ;  the  parents 
lived  on  into  old  age,  and  were  permitted  at  last  to 
breathe  the  fragrance  of  the  wreaths  heaped  by  en- 
thusiastic Europe  about  the  feet  of  their  gifted 
son.  The  father  is  prudent  and  devout,  yet  marked 
with  a  certain  sternness,  the  echo  in  the  home  of 
the  harshness  in  the  world  without.  When  the  wars 
were  done  he  was  established  as  a  forester  at  the 
duke's  country-seat,  gaining  reputation  gradually 
for  skill  in  wood-craft ;  and  it  is  a  pleasant  thing  to 
read  how,  in  his  old  age,  the  famous  son  takes  his 
father's  notes  on  tree-culture,  finds  a  publisher  for 
them,  and  introduces  the  veteran  to  the  world 
under  the  prestige  of  his  own  name.  The  mother 
is  in  character  all  that  is  lovely,  and  full  of  poetic 
sensibility.  As  the  boy  Schiller  comes  forward,  he 
is  destined  to  be  a  minister,  but  when  fourteen  the 
duke  offers  him  a  place  in  a  school  which  he  has  es- 
tablished to  train  youths  for  the  public  service.  It 
shows  the  subjection  of  the  people  that  the  parents 
do  not  dare  to  refuse  the  offer,  although  they  would 
have  gladly  done  so,  and  the  prospect  was  utterly 
repulsive  to  the  boy  himself.  It  seems  to  have  been 
an  irksome  restraint  into  which  he  was  put,  through 
which  five  or  six  years  later  his  impetuous  spirit  was 
forced  to  burst  a  way  to  emancipation. 

The  destination  marked  out  for  him  now  was  that 
of  army  surgeon,  and  here  is  his  portrait  as  a  friend 


SCHILLER.  417 

of  his  drew  it  when  at  length  he  was  qualified : 
"  Crushed  into  the  stiff,  tasteless  old  Prussian  uni- 
form ;  on  each  of  his  temples  three  stiff  rolls,  as  if 
done  with  gypsum  ;  the  tiny,  cocked  hat  scarcely 
covering  his  crown  ;  so  much  thicker  the  long  pig- 
tail, with  the  slender  neck  crammed  into  a  very  nar- 
row horse-hair  stock  ;  the  feet  put  under  the  white 
spatterdashes,  smirched  by  traces  of  shoe-blacking, 
giving  to  the  legs  a  bigger  diameter  than  the  thighs, 
squeezed  into  their  tight-fitting  breeches,  could 
boast  of.  Hardly  or  not  at  all  able  to  bend  his 
knees,  the  whole  man  moved  like  a  stork."  l  Not 
more  irksome  upon  the  spirited  boy  of  twenty-one 
was  this  absurd  dress  than  the  training  which  he 
had  received  was  upon  his  soul.  What  wonder, 
then,  that  when  that  soul  now  uttered  itself,  it 
should  have  been  such  an  outbreak  of  flame  as  when 
a  conflagration  makes  a  way  for  itself  to  the  air ! 
Such  an  outburst  is  "  The  Kobbers."  It  was  full  of 
wild  extravagance,  but  at  the  same  time  of  splendor 
and  truth.  It  was  received  in  Germany  enthusiafi- 
tically,  and  the  high-cravated  youth  who  moved  like 
a  stork  was  at  once  a  famous  man.  He  fled  from 
Stuttgart,  liable  to  arrest,  for  he  had  been,  as  it 
were,  sold  into  the  service  of  the  duke.  At  Mann- 
heim, at  a  distance  of  120  miles,  he  became  poet  of 
the  theatre,  but  his  position  was  not  }^et  secure. 
While  here  he  wrote  two  other  plays,  "  Fiesco," 
and  "  Kabale  und  Liebe."  The  young  man  of 
twenty-three  worked,  let  us  hope,  dressed  now  in 


1  Scharffenstein. 
27 


418  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

somewhat  looser  fashion,  but  in  a  dreary  room  in 
an  outlying  village,  the  November  rain  beating  in 
through  the  paper  that  did  duty  for  glass  in  the 
window,  pinched  with  poverty,  and  in  dread  of  being 
borne  back  to  bondage.  The  new  plays  deepened 
the  impression  which  "  The  Robbers  "  had  produced. 
Fame,  which  had  come  with  such  promptness,  was 
now  followed  by  fortune,  which  had  been  tardier. 
The  enlightened  duke  of  Saxe  Weimar,  Karl  Au- 
gust, honored  him  with  a  title ;  still  other  poten- 
tates with  a  pension.  Danger  of  pursuit  ceased. 
He  moved  with  freedom  from  Mannheim  to  Leipsig, 
from  Leipsig  to  Dresden,  thence  to  Jena,  thence  to 
Weimar,  where  at  length  the  end  was  to  come.  The 
stream  that  had  at  first  been  turbid  and  destructive, 
as  it  tore  in  "  The  Robbers,"  through  the  barriers, 
rapidly  ran  itself  clear,  flowing  at  length  pure, 
deep,  and  quiet,  but  with  no  less  force  and  majesty 
than  at  first.  Schiller  gives  himself  for  a  time  to 
other  studies.  He  writes  his  historical  works,  and 
touches  metaphysics  in  a  reading  of  Kant.  He  is 
now  known  and  honored  by  the  noblest  of  the  land. 
He  comes  to  Jena  as  professor  of  history,  and  very 
notably  lives  henceforth  in  close  intimacy  with 
Gothe,  a  friendship  most  honorable  to  both,  rich  in 
its  effects  upon  the  genius  of  both,  going  forward 
without  break,  without  jealousy  on  either  side,  until 
severed  by  death. 

Schiller's  life  was  one  of  tireless  industry.  While 
at  work  upon  dramas  and  prose  writings  he  found 
time  for  his  superb  tyrics.  At  length,  after  ten 
years'  interruption,  he  returns  again  to  the  kind  of 


SCHILLER,  419 

composition  for  which  he  feels  he  is  best  fitted, — 
the  drama.  Now  it  is  that,  at  forty  years  of  age, 
when  his  power  is  at  the  highest,  all  his  natural 
force  unabated,  but  calmed  and  trained  by  experi- 
ence of  life  and  study,  he  opens  his  second  dramatic 
period  with  ' '  Wallenstein . ' '  Sickness  has  overtaken 
him  ;  he  has  burned  his  candle  at  both  ends,  study- 
ing through  the  night,  and  busy  through  the  day  with 
some  form  of  labor.  He  has  married  Charlotte  von 
Lengenfeld,  and  has  a  happy  home.  Without  re- 
spite come  "  Marie  Stuart,"  the  "Maid  of  Orleans," 
the  "Bride  of  Messina,"  and,  at  length,  his  most 
popular  work,  "  Wilhelm  Tell."  Perhaps  we  may 
say  that  never  has  there  been  in  an  author's  life  a 
more  symmetrical  climax.  From  "The  Robbers," 
his  first  piece,  to  "  Wilhelm  Tell,"  his  last,  it  is 
an  almost  constantly  ascending  stair,  each  footing 
in  a  region  more  bright  and  pure  than  that  below, 
without  a  downward  turn.  Happy  the  poet  who  can 
forever  soar  as  he  sings,  nor  feel  that  the  pinion 
cripples  or  the  sunward-gazing  eye  grows  dim  ! 

He  was  but  forty-five,  but  the  end  had  come. 
"May,  1805,"  says  the  journal  of  an  eye-witness, 
"  Schiller,  on  awakening  from  sleep,  asked  to  see 
his  youngest  child.  The  baby,  Emilie,  was  brought. 
He  turned  his  head  around,  took  the  little  hand  in 
his,  and,  with  an  inexpressible  look  of  love  and  sor- 
row, gazed  into  the  little  face,  then  burst  into  bitter 
weeping,  hid  his  face  in  the  pillows,  and  made  a  sign 
to  take  the  child  away.  Toward  evening  he  asked 
to  see  the  sun  once  more.  The  curtain  was  opened  ; 
with  bright  eyes  and  face  he  gazed  into  the  beautiful 


420  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

sunset."  *  *  *  "  His  wife  was  kneeling  at  his 
bedside ;  he  still  pressed  her  offered  hand.  There 
now  darted,  as  it  were,  an  electrical  spasm  over  all  his 
countenance ;  the  head  sank  back,  the  profoundest 
repose  transfigured  his  face.  His  sleep  deepened 
and  deepened  till  it  changed  into  the  sleep  from 
which  there  is  no  awakening."1  They  buried  him 
at  night,  between  twelve  and  one.  The  heavens  were 
overhung  with  clouds,  but.  as  the  coffin  was  placed 
beside  the  grave  the  veil  was  rent  asunder,  and  the 
moon  threw  her  first  rays  upon  the  bier.  They 
placed  him  in  the  grave,  the  moon  retired,  and  a 
fierce  tempest  resounded  through  the  night. 

In  modern  times,  it  seems  to  me  that  Schiller  can 
best  stand  as  the  representative  German  poet.  No 
other  is  more  thoroughly  noble  ;  no  other,  I  think, 
so  characteristically  German.  The  figure  of  Les- 
sing  is  unmistakably  an  heroic  one,  but  one  regards 
it  with  a  somewhat  frigid  admiration.  He  is  more- 
over to  be  looked  upon  rather  as  the  Moses  that  led 
his  nation  to  the  promised  land,  than  as  partaking 
himself  of  the  splendor  of  the  best  time.  Gothe 
we  must  always  consider  as  the  supreme  figure  of 
the  great  period,  as  he  is  the  supreme  intellectual 
figure  of  the  world  in  these  latter  days ;  but  I  be- 
lieve we  may  say  that  the  very  limitations  of  Schil- 
ler, as  compared  with  Gothe,  make  it  more  appro- 
priate to  select  him  as  a  typical  poet  of  his  race. 
In  so  far  as  Gothe  was  greater,  he  lifted  himself 


Prom  Carlyle's  Life  of  Schiller. 


SCHILLER.  421 

into  the  region  of  the  universal,  standing  for  the 
world,  and  not  a  race  of  men.  Schiller,  less  cosmic, 
is  always  the  German,  and  mirrors  the  German  soul. 
Where  Schiller  was  strongest,  as  a  dramatist,  he  was, 
if  we  except  "Faust,"  Gothe's  peer.  Carlyle,  the 
Diogenes  of  criticism,  jeering  and  flouting  the  world 
from  the  rugged  tub  of  his  uncouth  phrase, — so 
honest  and  so  crabbed, — even  Carlyle  would  hardly 
dare  now  to  write  what  he  wrote  in  his  youth,  fifty 
years  ago  :  "  '  Faust '  is  but  a  careless  effusion  com- 
pared with  '  Wallenstein.' '  But  the  author  of 
"  Faust,"  Gothe  himself,  could  say  to  Eckermann, 
of  this  same  ' '  Wallenstein  :  "  "  It  is  so  great  that 
there  is  nothing  like  it  in  existence."  For  nobility 
of  soul  Schiller  is  supreme,  and  his  nobleness  is  of 
a  German  type.  Gothe,  for  the  questionable  pas- 
sages of  his  life,  has  found  warm  defenders  who  un- 
dertake to  make  all  square  with  the  highest  stand- 
ards ;  few  have  ever  presumed  to  speak  of  Schiller 
as  needing  defenders  ;  to  prove  his  virtue  would  be 
like  proving  sunshine  to  be  light.  I  know  not  what 
real  blemish  can  be  found  in  it ;  for  no  one  would 
think  of  blaming  the  trace  of  undue  vehemence  to 
be  found  in  his  youth,  and  reflected  in  "  The  Rob- 
bers," any  more  than  the  snap  of  the  elastic  cord 
which  has  been  stretched  almost  to  the  breaking- 
point.  Thorough  integrity,  candor,  and  fidelity 
seem  to  have  been  his  from  first  to  last,  and  these 
warmed  by  a  glow  which  is  peculiarly  Teutonic. 
When  he  helps  his  old  father  out  with  his  book, 
or  sends  his  homely  mother  and  sisters  unswerv- 
ingly the  birthday-present,  with  affectionate  greet- 


422  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

ings,  in  the  midst  of  his  greatness,  or  bursts  into 
manly  tears  on  his  death-bed  at  the  sight  of  his 
baby's  face, — here,  and  always  elsewhere,  we  see 
that  beautiful  sensibility — G-emutliliclikeit  —  char- 
acteristically German,  and  the  very  rose  in  the  garden 
of  German  virtue. 

In  his  intellectual  traits  Schiller  is  even  more 
thoroughly  German  than  in  his  character:  "A 
Frenchman,  an  Englishman,  and  a  German,"  says  a 
writer,  "were  commissioned  once  to  give  the  world 
the  benefit  of  their  views  on  that  interesting  animal, 
the  camel.  Away  went  the  Frenchman  to  the  Jar- 
din  des  Plantes,  spent  an  hour  there  in  rapid  inves- 
tigation, returned,  and  wrote  a  paper  in  which  there 
was  no  phrase  the  Academy  could  blame,  but  also 
no  phrase  which  added  to  the  general  knowledge. 
He  was  perfectly  satisfied  however,  and  said,  "  Le 
voila,  le  chameau!"  The  Englishman  packed  up 
his  tea-caddy  and  magazine  of  comforts,  pitched  his 
tent  in  the  East,  remained  there  two  years  studying 
the  camel  in  its  habits,  and  returned  with  a  thick 
volume  of  facts,  arranged  without  order,  expounded 
without  philosophy,  but  serving  as  valuable  materials 
for  all  who  came  after  him.  The  German,  despising 
the  frivolity  of  the  Frenchman,  and  the  unphilo- 
sophic  matter-of-factness  of  the  Englishman,  retired 
to  his  study,  there  to  evolve  the  idea  of  a  camel 
from  out  of  the  depths  of  his  moral  consciousness." 

The  story  represents  amusingly  the  tendency  of 
the  Germans  to  idealism.  Schiller  certainly  would 
have  evolved  the  camel  from  the  depths  of  his  con- 
sciousness ;  certainly  he  was,  intellectually,  a  good 


SCHILLER.  423 

representative  of  his  race,  —  more  so,  I  think,  than 
Gothe,  who  was  more  Greek  than  German,  or  per- 
haps too  universal  to  be  assigned  to  any  one  type. 
The  artist  is  he  who  seeks  to  reproduce  nature  ;  he 
is  excellent  in  proportion  to  the  perfection  of  the 
image  which  he  makes.  Of  the  artist  in  these  mod- 
ern days  the  objective  Gothe  is  the  best  type  ;  the 
subjective  Schiller  aspired  after  perfect  artistic  form 
in  a  less  degree  than  his  great  friend.  Poetry  was 
his  life  task  ;  not  because,  like  Gothe,  he  sought  to 
reach  in  it  an  artistic  result,  but  because  he  wanted 
to  use  it  as  a  medium  through  which  he  might  ex- 
press his  great  ideas  of  human  dignity  and  freedom. 
Art  with  him  was  a  secondary  matter,  which  he  often 
sacrificed  to  what  he  felt  to  be  greater.  As  Gothe 
was  the  artist,  Schiller  was  a  teacher  and  preacher. 
In  Schiller  the  idealistic  tendency  was  very  marked, 
and  at  first  he  was  not  a  close  observer  of  life  and 
nature.  Gothe,  by  drawing  landscapes  in  his  youth, 
by  his  investigations  in  natural  history,  also  by  his 
excellent  social  advantages,  enjoyed  from  an  early 
period,  had  learned  life  and  nature  thoroughly. 
Schiller  passed  his  youth  in  confinement,  shut  out 
from  nature  and  men,  of  whom  he  could  only  learn 
from  books,  or  as  he  evolved  them  from  his  own 
consciousness.  Even  in  his  later  works,  as  Wilhelm 
von  Humboldt  says,  he  does  not  so  much  draw 
nature  as  produce  it  from  his  own  soul.  As  an 
artist,  however,  he  constantly  improved;  he  him- 
self, in  his  later  life,  called  the  figures1  which  he 


Ungeheuer. 


424  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

sketched  in  his  first  dramas  monstrosities.  His  in- 
tercourse with  Go  the,  and  study  of  Gothe  and  Ho- 
mer, corrected  his  too  great  subjectivity,  while 
at  the  same  time  his  interest  in  his  great  inspiring 
ideas — human  dignity  and  freedom — never  dimin- 
ished. His  fancy  was  so  creative,  his  judgment 
won  such  certainty,  that  at  last  he  could  create  the 
most  vivid  pictures  of  outward  nature,  —  even  from 
the  contemplation  of  phenomena  subordinate  and 
trifling,  get  a  perfect  sight  of  the  sublimest.  In  the 
fine  ballad  of  "  The  Diver"  the  detailed  description 
of  the  ocean  whirlpool  is  most  impressive  ;  Schiller 
is  said  to  have  derived  it  from  observation  of  a  mill- 
flume.  Though  he  grew  as  an  artist  constantly 
greater,  he  never  reached  the  mark  of  Gothe.  The 
latter  was  like  the  sculptor  who  forms  his  statues 
carefully  from  living  models,  moulding,  however, 
the  particulars  derived  from  them  to  the  highest  ex- 
pression of  bodily  and  spiritual  beauty.  Schiller,  on 
the  other  hand,  always  proceeding  from  general 
ideas,  striving  to  reach  for  them  a  corresponding 
form,  was  like  a  sculptor  possessed  by  a  thought  in 
embodying  which  he  neglects  the  study  of  actual  liv- 
ing forms.  As  such  a  sculptor  would  produce  often 
caricatures,  just  so  the  subjective  poet.  As  has  just 
been  said,  Schiller  called  the  figures  of  his  ear- 
liest dramas  monstrosities ;  he  did  raise  himself 
from  the  deformity  more  and  more  to  truth  and 
beauty,  and  did  it  by  pushing  back  his  subjectivity, 
or  at  least  affording  to  the  objective  view  its  inalien- 
able rights.  While  Gothe,  however,  became  blended, 
as  it  were,  with  the  world  outside  of  himself,  the 


SCHILLER. 


425 


spirit  of  Schiller  always  asserted  itself.  "Even  in 
the  best  of  his  characters,"  says  a  critic,  "  we  rarely 
see  individual  beings  with  sharp,  clear-cut  features  ; 
he  expresses  himself  and  his  world  of  ideas  ;  he  him- 
self continually  shines  through  in  his  creations.  As 
it  is  purely  impossible  to  meet  the  man  Gothe  in 
his  poems,  Schiller,  on  the  other  hand,  meets  us 
in  his  personality  out  of  every  line  he  has  written, 
clear  and  life-warm.  Hence  it  follows  that  he  comes 
so  near  to  us." 1  I  think  this  finely  said.  The  per- 
sonality of  Schiller  was  very  noble,  and  it  is  an 
inspiring  thing  to  meet  it  so  constantly  as  we  read 
him  ;  but  the  fact  that  we  do  so  meet  it  speaks  his 
condemnation  as  an  artist.  Shakespeare  never  shines 
through  in  his  characters.  They  pass  before  in  a 
multitude,  —  the  prince,  the  beggar  —  the  maid,  the 
harlot  —  the  saint,  the  villain  —  the  simpleton,  the 
sage  —  the  veteran,  the  babe,  —  all  in  the  thousand- 
fold sharp  contrast  of  life.  Which  is  the  master 
himself — the  noble  Brutus,  who  has  met  no  man  in 
life  "but  he  was  true  to  me,"  or  the  embittered 
Tim  on,  who  finds  all  men  false ;  the  trusty  Kent, 
faithful  through  the  deepest  poverty  and  suffering, 
or  lago,  the  incarnate  lie?  Who  can  say?  The 
master  is  unseen,  holding  before  his  unrevealed  soul 
his  infinitely-pictured  veil.  So  the  soul  of  Homer  is 
all  unrevealed.  He  is  to  us,  as  Garlyle  says,  but  a 
voice,  —  the  witness.  "  It  is  impossible,"  says  the 
critic,  "  to  read  the  man  Gothe  in  his  poems.  He 
does  not  approach  us  in  his  personality."  In  this 

1  Kurz. 


426  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

way  Gothe  approaches  the  highest   greatness ;  he 
would  be  to  us  sphinx-like,  like  Shakespeare.1 

Taking  up,  now,  the  particular  departments  of 
literary  work  in  which  Schiller  employed  himself, 
we  shall  find  a  variety  almost  as  great  as  that  of 
Gothe.  That  he  might  have  become  a  skilful  writer 
of  romances  is  indicated  by  the  incomplete  story  of  the 
"  Ghost-seer."  He  accomplished  more  in  history, 
but  his  labors  in  this  field,  though  important,  were 
transitory.  He  was  full  of  the  aspiration  to  set  free 
and  help  upward  humanity,  and  the  historical  sub- 
jects he  chose  always  had  to  do  with  the  struggle  of 
humanity  toward  something  higher.  The  first  work 
he  ever  projected,  before  the  composition  of  "  The 
Robbers,"  was  a  history  of  the  most  remarkable  re- 
bellions and  conspiracies  of  the  middle  and  modern 
ages.  The  works  which  he  did  complete  were  the 
story  of  the  "  Revolt  of  the  Netherlands,"  and  the 
"  Thirty  Years'  War."  The  books  show  no  deep 
investigation,  and  have  therefore  sometimes  been 
lightly  prized.  His  discrimination  was,  however, 
excellent ;  what  materials  he  had  he  used  to  good 
purpose.  He  wrote  with  enthusiasm,  showed  con- 
stant improvement,  and  might  no  doubt  have  be- 
come very  great.  One  of  the  best  of  German  his- 
torians has  paid  him  this  tribute:  "  Schiller  made 
use  of  history  to  ennoble  low  views  of  life,  to  awaken 
a  spirit  of  sacrifice  for  the  sake  of  the  greatest  ben- 
efits of  life, — freedom  and  religion,  —  to  oppose  a 

For  a  criticism  of  this  position,  see  Button's  Essay  on 


SCHILLER.  427 

poetic  way  of  consideration  to  the  stiff  and  dry 
methods  which  had  prevailed.  What  was  valuable 
in  this  department  was  accessible  only  to  the  learned. 
History,  the  picture  of  life,  was  abandoned  to 
those  who  quarrelled  about  dates  and  names, — to 
pedants  who  smothered  it  in  prolixity,  or  lawyers  who 
abused  it  in  inferences.  It  was  therefore  a  benefit 
that  a  great  poetic  mind  should  interweave  genuine 
poetry  into  the  story  of  German  life,  which  had  been 
made  in  the  highest  degree  prosaic."  l 

Schiller  had  gifts  which  might  have  made  him  a 
speculative  philosopher  instead  of  a  poet.  The 
philosophical  and  poetical  tendencies  were  at  first 
about  equally  developed  in  him,  and  he  was  em- 
barrassed between  them.  He  says  himself  in  a 
letter  to  Gothe  :  * '  The  poet  in  my  youth  overcame 
me  when  I  ought  to  have  philosophized,  and  the 
philosophical  spirit  when  I  wanted  to  write  poetry. 
Still  it  often  happens  to  me  that  the  imagination 
disturbs  my  abstractions,  and  the  cold  understand- 
ing my  poetry."  He  was  strongly  drawn  to  Kant, 
at  that  time  just  rising  into  fame,  whose  principles 
he  applied  to  particular  questions  in  a  series  of  ex- 
cellent treatises.  He  was  also  an  admirable  critic, 
often  not  sparing  himself.  "  The  fine  arts  have  no 
other  end  than  to  delight,"  was  one  of  his  dicta, — 
a  judgment  in  which  he  combated  the  view  that  one 
of  the  fine  arts,  poetry,  should  teach  and  ex- 
hort, and  so  pronounced  his  own  condemnation ;  for 
his  own  poetry  was  always  full  of  lessons  and  ex- 


Schlosser. 


428  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

hortations.  He  concluded  his  critical  writings  with 
the  treatise,  the  most  valuable  of  the  series,  to  which 
allusion  was  made  in  the  preceding  chapter,  "  Upon 
Naive  and  Sentimental  Poetry."  His  letters  are 
said  by  Gothe  to  belong  to  his  best  work ;  he  was 
magnificent  in  conversation,  and,  had  circumstances 
afforded  him  the  opportunity,  might  have  become  a 
splendid  popular  orator. 

We  have  now  to  consider  Schiller  in  his  proper 
field,  —  as  a  poet.  In  his  lyrics  the  man  himself 
constantly  shines  through  ;  they  are  not  such  tran- 
scripts of  impressions,  from  which  personality  has 
been  removed,  as  we  find  in  Gothe.  His  first  lyrics 
are  blamed  as  without  poetic  worth,  having,  to  be 
sure,  enough  of  passion  and  fancy,  but  extravagant 
and  untruthful.  Schiller  himself  afterward  con- 
demned them.  They  have  now  only  a  historical  in- 
terest. But  here,  as  everywhere,  he  constantly 
grew.  If  we  wish  to  see  him  at  his  best  in  this  de- 
partment, we  must  study  him  in  a  series  of  pieces 
written  in  his  full  maturity,  to  which  Germans  give 
the  name  cultur-hislorisch , — an  adjective  difficult  to 
translate.  The  pieces  referred  to  are  partly  emo- 
tional, therefore  lyric  ;  partly  descriptive,  therefore 
in  the  German  sense  epic ;  partly  designed  to 
convey  instruction  and  exhortation,  therefore  di- 
dactic. The  pieces  deserve  some  study,  because 
they  are  thoroughly  characteristic  of  Schiller  ;  let  us 
take,  then,  the  two  most  prominent  among  them,  — 
"  The  Walk  "  and  the  famous  "  Song  of  the  Bell." 
In  the  first,  the  poet  walking  forth  beholds  a  varied 
landscape.  He  looks  down  now  upon  a  lovely 


SCHILLER.  429 

plain,  now  upon  a  city  with  all  its  life,  now  upon 
peasant  homes,  now  upon  the  bustle  of  a  harbor. 
The  descriptions  are  felicitous  everywhere,  and 
everywhere  blended  with  them  are  theorizings,  spec- 
ulative and  historical,  regarding  the  progress  of  man 
from  barbarism  to  civilization,  then  the  decadence 
again  to  a  state  of  savagery.  The  descriptions  of 
the  landscape  interchange  with  the  considerations  of 
the  development  of  humanity,  and  we  have  at  the 
end  a  series  of  beautiful  pictures  intertwined  with 
the  story  of  progress  from  wild  beginnings  to  re- 
finement, then  again  the  decadence  to  a  state  of 
nature. 

It  is  a  noble  poem,  but  more  charming  is  the 
peerle  ss  '  *  Song  of  the  Bell . ' '  This  touches  the  heart 
far  more  nearly  than  "  The  Walk,"  for  in. the  latter 
it  is  the  course  of  man  collectively  that  is  traced, 
and  the  consideration  becomes  abstract ;  whereas  in 
the  "  Song  of  the  Bell "  it  is  the  going  forward  of 
the  individual,  through  social  and  civil  relations, 
through  changes  of  joy  and  sorrow,  from  the  cradle 
to  the  grave.  Parallel  with  the  unfolding  of  the 
picture  proceeds  the  casting  of  the  bell,  and  the  an- 
nouncement of  the  functions  it  is  to  fulfil  when  it 
swings  at  length  in  its  tower.  What  graphic  power 
in  the  presentment,  now  of  sweet  innocence,  now  of 
noble  virtue,  now  of  bliss,  now  of  pain !  The 
youth's  upspringing  love,  the  housewife's  decorous 
thrift,  the  wholesome  prosperity  of  the  man ;  then 
the  shadows  and  lurid  glares  that  are  thrown  across 
the  picture,  —  the  mother's  coffin  in  the  home,  the 
conflagration,  the  dreadful  civil  uproar  !  A  current  of 


430  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

rhythm,  ever  varying,  ever  melodious,  sweetly  chim- 
ing, bears  it  all  past  us,  —  now  in  a  quick  ripple, 
now  in  sober  calm,  now  in  convulsive,  tossing  surges  ; 
and  ever  and  anon  is  heard  the  voice  of  the  master 
calling,  and  the  tones  of  the  bell, — now  joyous,  now 
mournful,  now  full  of  boding  terror.  It  seems 
almost  irreverent  to  touch  "  The  Walk,"  much 
more  the  ««  Song  of  the  Bell,"  with  criticism.  Yet 
if  we  are  to  judge  them  by  rigid  art  rules,  they  are 
defective.  It  was  Schiller's  own  dictum  that  the 
function  of  the  fine  arts,  and  therefore  of  poetry, 
is  to  give  pleasure.  If  it  is  made  a  channel  for  in- 
struction, it  is  a  perversion,  and  the  perfect  effect 
is  in  so  far  hindered.  The  didactic  purpose  of  these 
poems  is  unmistakable.  For  pure  art  the  subject- 
ive is  too  prominent  in  them  ;  the  poet  plainly  pro- 
ceeds from  the  idea  within  himself;  by  that  he  is 
mastered  and  inspired,  and  he  cares  little  more  for 
the  world  outside  than  to  obtain  from  it  the  help 
necessary  to  its  effective  expression.  They  are  not 
a  reproduction  of  life  so  much  as  a  statement  of  the 
poet's  ideas  about  life.  It  is  very  noble,  but  it  is  not 
Gothe's  way,  not  Homer's,  not  Shakespeare's ;  so 
Schiller  falls,  as  an  artist,  here  short  of  the  highest. 
He  is  however  so  noble  as  thinker,  as  instructor, 
as  preacher,  that  one  feels  disposed  to  say,  Perish 
the  art,  and  let  us  have  in  preference  the  wise  and 
kindling  utterances  of  the  teacher  ! 

Schiller  had  plans  for  great  epics,  which  remained 
unfulfilled.  Descriptive  pieces  of  a  shorter  kind, 
romances  and  ballads,  he  produced  abundantly,  and 
they  are  among  the  treasures  of  German  literature. 


SCHILLER.  431 

We  must  pass  them  here  without  mention,  reserving 
space  to  consider  the  dramas,  where  Schiller  was 
greatest.  As  has  been  noticed,  of  his  dramatic  ac- 
tivity there  were  two  periods,  separated  by  an  in- 
terval of  more  than  ten  years.  The  dramas  of  his 
youth — "The  Robbers,"  "  Fiesco,"  "  Kabale  und 
Liebe" — do  not  proceed  from  an  effort,  in  the 
spirit  of  an  artist,  to  represent  practically  the  world 
and  life,  but  from  his  irresistible  impulse  to  give 
form  and  expression  to  the  ideas  which  stormed  upon 
him ;  to  express  his  views  upon  political,  civil,  and 
moral  circumstances  ;  to  protest  against  the  crushing 
out  of  right  and  freedom.  These  dramas  are  brilliant 
through  fulness,  novelty,  and  nobleness  of  tone. 
The  language,  although  violent  and  turgid,  overfull 
of  images,  and  often  coarse,  is  yet  of  absorbing 
power  and  of  truly  tempestuous  eloquence.  The 
thing  wanting  to  them  is  the  essential  thing  in  a 
drama,  —  that  the  action  and  characters  should  con- 
form to  life.  In  these  dramas  Schiller  ventured 
with  great  boldness  to  uncover  the  pitiableness  of 
the  social  and  political  Germany  of  his  time,  follow- 
ing the  precedent  already  set  by  Lessing  in  "  Emilia 
Galotti,"  only  with  more  audacity.  In  his  later 
life,  as  has  been  said,  Schiller  himself  called  the  fig- 
ures of  the  dramas  monsters  and  caricatures.1  Tak- 
ing "The  Robbers"  as  a  type  of  them,  we  can 
easily  understand  what  he  means.  All  the  charac- 
ters want  truth  ;  they  are  not  taken  from  life,  but  only 
creatures  of  fancy.  The  action  too  of  the  play  is 

1  Kurz. 


432  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

not  true  to  life,  still  the  wild  action  corresponds  to 
the  personages,  and  these  are  consistently  carried 
out ;  there  are  no  inner  contradictions,  though  they 
may  contradict  reality.  The  idea  which  lay  at  the 
bottom  of  « '  The  Robbers  ' '  had  gone  forth  from  his 
deepest  soul ;  it  was  his  own  self,  and  he  gave  his 
whole  power  to  its  presentment.  The  action,  the 
characters,  were  to  him  the  means  which  he  sought 
to  employ  for  a  moral  end.  He  had  passed  the  fair- 
est time  of  his  youth  in  what  was  almost  slavery, 
which  not  only  claimed  the  conduct  of  his  studies 
and  of  his  behavior,  but  sought  to  fasten  the  rough- 
est chains  upon  his  soul.  Against  this  slavery  "  The 
Robbers"  was  directed.  It  was  an  intense  ex- 
pression of  his  excited  feeling,  his  injured  manly 
dignity ;  in  his  vehemence  he  forgot  truth  in  char- 
acters and  in  actions.  The  German  people  in  that 
day  lay  precisely  in  Schiller's  circumstances.  As 
he  was  bound  within  the  strait-jacket  of  an  oppres- 
sive school  discipline,  the  people  were  bound  within 
the  yet  more  oppressive  restrictions  of  the  existing 
civil  order,  robbed  of  their  outer  as  well  as  inner 
freedom.  What  thousands  had  already  felt  was  ex- 
pressed in  ««  The  Robbers  "  with  great-hearted  bold- 
ness. He  dared  to  indicate  that  only  a  general  in- 
surrection can  lead,  under  such  circumstances,  to 
the  better.  Karl  Moor  became  a  robber  because 
only  in  this  way  could  he  fight  the  destructive  social 
order  and  heal  the  wounds  which  it  had  made.  But 
the  higher  moral  feeling  which  was  born  and  had 
grown  with  Schiller  caused  him  also  to  recognize  the 
eternal  doctrine  that  the  good  cannot  be  reached 


SCHILLER.  433 

in  the  way  of  crime.  Karl  Moor  had  not  merely 
fallen  into  strife  with  the  social  order,  but  also  with 
morality,  and  therefore  must  perish.  His  revolt 
against  social  order  does  not  seem  blameworthy ; 
he  only  considers  himself  liable  to  punishment  be- 
cause he  has  wanted  to  attack  the  course  of  Provi- 
dence. In  "  The  Robbers  "  the  incurable  defects  of 
the  social  circumstances  of  Schiller's  time  are  rep- 
resented in  the  most  glowing  colors.  The  idea  run- 
ning through  it,  most  vividly  presented,  can  be 
thus  expressed :  "The  social  conditions  are  rotten 
to  the  core ;  they  need  a  complete  reformation, 
through  which  it  will  become  possible  to  the  individ- 
ual to  make  available  the  talent  God  has  given 
him,  without  in  that  way  falling  into  discord  with 
the  social  order."  l 

"  Kabale  und  Liebe  "  is  a  piece  which  perhaps 
especially  among  the  works  of  Schiller  should  ap- 
peal to  Americans,  as  it  is,  I  believe,  the  only  one 
in  which  he  in  any  way  touches  upon  the  events  of 
our  history.  I  have  found  nothing  in  Schiller  more 
moving  than  the  account  of  the  departure  of  the 
Hessians  for  their  service  under  George  III., — 
nearly  the  whole  of  the  healthy  young  manhood  of 
the  land,  torn  from  bride  and  wife  with  club  and 
sabre-thrust,  taxed  as  cattle,  and  sent  unconsulted 
to  the  confines  of  the  earth.  The  dialogue  is  be- 
tween a  good-hearted  mistress  of  the  duke  and  an 
old  chamberlain,  who  brings  her  from  the  potentate 
a  present  of  jewels. 


1  Kura. 
88 


434  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

"  The  Lady  (opens  the  casket  and  starts  back  ter- 
rified ) .  Man  I  what  does  thy  duke  pay  for  these 
stones  ? 

**  Chamberlain  (with  gloomy  face).  They  cost 
him  not  a  farthing. 

'  *  Lady .  What !  art  thou  mad  ?  « Nothing  ?  '  and 
you  look  at  me  as  if  you  would  pierce  me  through. 
Do  these  stones,  so  immeasurably  precious,  cost 
nothing? 

"  Chamberlain.  Yesterday  seven  thousand  chil- 
dren of  the  land  were  sent  to  America  ;  they  pay  for 
everything. 

"Lady.  Man,  what  is  the  matter  with  thee?  I 
believe  you  are  weeping. 

"  Chamberlain  (wipes  his  eyes,  with  a  terrible 
voice,  all  his  limbs  trembling).  Jewels  like  those 
there  —  I  too  have  two  sons  among  them. 

"  Lady.     But  no  one  compelled? 

"  Chamberlain  (laughs  fearfully).  O  God  !  No — 
only  volunteers !  Some  forward  fellows  stepped 
out  before  the  line  and  asked  the  colonel  at  what 
price  a  yoke  the  prince  was  selling  men.  But  our 
most  gracious  master  had  all  the  regiments  march 
out  on  the  Parade  place,  and  the  impertinent  fel- 
lows shot  down.  We  heard  the  muskets  ring,  saw 
their  brains  spatter  the  pavement,  and  the  whole 
army  cried,  ««  Hurrah  for  America  !" 

"Lady.  God!  God!  and  I  heard  nothing  —  no- 
ticed nothing ! 

"Chamberlain.  Yes,  gracious  lady!  How  did 
you  happen  to  be  riding  with  our  gracious  master 
on  the  Barenhatz  just  as  they  struck  up  the  signal 


SCHILLER.  435 

for  marching?  You  ought  not  to  have  lost  the 
brilliant  spectacle  when  the  rolling  drums  announced 
to  us  that  it  was  time,  and  here  wailing  orphans  fol- 
lowed a  living  father,  and  there  a  mad  mother  ran 
to  spit  her  sucking  child  on  the  bayonets  ;  and  how 
they  hewed  bride  and  bridegroom  apart  with  sabre- 
cuts,  while  we  graybeards  stood  there  in  despair, 
and  at  last  threw  our  crutches  after  the  fellows  !  O, 
and  in  the  midst  of  all  the  thundering  drums  that 
God  might  not  hear  us  pray  — 

'•'•Lady.  Away  with  these  stones,  —  they  lighten 
the  flames  of  hell  into  my  heart.  Calm  thyself, 
poor  old  man.  They  will  return  —  they  will  see 
their  fatherland  again. 

"Chamberlain.  Heaven  knows  !  At  the  city  gate 
they  turned  and  cried,  *  God  be  with  you,  wives 
and  children !  Long  live  our  good  father,  the 
prince  !  At  the  judgment-day  we  shall  be  there  ! '  "  * 

In  "Don  Carlos,"  the  last  drama  of  Schiller's 
first  period,  we  may  see  a  change  preparing.  It  is 
indeed,  like  the  dramas  which  precede  it,  a  pure 
subjective  picture,  very  definitely  the  expression  of 
his  own  nature.  What  the  different  characters  say  is 
nothing  else  than  what  the  poet  thinks  and  feels. 
The  effort  however  after  a  more  artistic  method 
may  be  already  seen ;  the  language,  though  often 
turgid  and  passionate,  is  yet  more  noble  and  natural 
than  in  the  earlier  pieces.  As  has  been  mentioned 
in  the  sketch  of  his  life,  after  the  composition  of 
"  Don  Carlos,"  Schiller  wrote  no  play  for  ten  years. 


1  Kabale  und  Liebe,  act  ii.,  scene  2. 


436  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

Meantime,  through  historical  and  philosophical  stud- 
ies, he  won  a  deeper  insight  into  art,  a  better 
knowledge  of  men  and  life.  He  largely  conquered 
his  tendency  toward  the  abstract.  His  acquaintance 
with  Gothe  was  affecting  him  deeply.  Turned  by 
his  influence,  at  length,  to  his  proper  field,  he  writes 
dramas  henceforth,  which,  with  one  exception,  are 
borrowed  from  history,  and  he  prepares  himself  for 
them  by  thorough  studies.  Although  he  constantly 
approaches  more  nearly  to  an  objective  presentment, 
his  characters  always  becoming  more  definite  and 
individual,  he  did  not  give  up  his  lofty  ideas  ;  they 
became  more  pure,  calm,  and  rich  through  his 
study  and  experience.  He  learned,  at  length,  how 
to  penetrate  and  enliven  his  plays  with  them  with- 
out destroying  objective  truth  ;  so  that  with  a  high 
artistic  worth  the  plays  offer  depth  of  thought, 
and,  what  is  still  higher,  moral  nobility,  a  sublim- 
ity of  tone  such  as  AVC  meet  in  scarcely  any  other 
German  poet.  Thus  he  became  in  a  marked  way 
the  educator  of  the  German  people,  upon  whose 
moral  and  political  development  he  had  the  most  de- 
cided and  enduring  influence.1 

Schiller  opened  his  second  dramatic  period  with 
the  magnificent  trilogy  of  "  Walleustein,"  his  most 
elaborate  production,  upon  which  he  worked  for 
seven  years.  Artistically,  it  is  imperfect,  and  he 
afterwards  surpassed  it.  It  is  variously  judged,  but 
to  my  mind  no  pl.iys  of  Schiller  are  so  impressive. 
Taking  for  his  hero  the  most  powerful  and  pictur- 

1  Kurz. 


SCHILLER.  437 

esque  figure  of  the  Thirty  Years'  War,  that  time  of 
terror  is  reproduced  most  vividly.  The  central  per- 
sonage subdues  the  soul  of  the  reader  with  a  spell 
such  as  the  historic  character  exerted  upon  the  men 
of  his  generation.  The  dark  figures  who  form  the 
group  in  whose  centre  he  stands  fascinate  while 
they  terrify ;  and  among  them  are  characters  pure 
and  lovely  even  among  the  creations  of  Schiller, — 
the  fairest  ideals  of  his  noble  soul. 

Let  us  study  the  series  of  plays,  "  Wallenstein's 
Camp,"  the  "  Piccolomini,"  "Wallenstein's  Death," 
more  closely.  It  is  in  fact  one  long  dramatic  piece, 
broken  into  three  for  convenience  of  representation. 

The  circumstances  of  the  hero's  career  will  be  re- 
called from  a  previous  chapter.  Wallenstein  pushes 
a  way  for  himself  from  obscurity  to  the  pinnacle  of 
power.  Of  unmatched  military  skill  and  ability  in 
influencing  men,  he  subdues  Europe  for  his  master, 
Ferdinand  II.  In  his  might  he  becomes  dangerous  ; 
he  is  accused  of  treason  at  last,  and  murdered,  with 
the  connivance  of  the  court. 

The  time  of  the  drama  is  close  upon  the  end  of 
Wallenstein's  career.  The  gigantic  figure  who  is 
the  centre  of  the  whole  is  not  at  once  presented  to 
us.  First,  in  the  "  Camp,"  we  have  the  soldiers  in 
the  ranks.  Troops  in  uniforms  of  all  colors  are 
swarming  ;  Croats  and  Uhlans  are  cooking  at  fires  ; 
others  throw  dice  on  drum-heads.  There  are  peas- 
ants who  have  been  stripped  of  every  thing,  and  have 
come  to  the  soldiers  to  beg  or  steal,  as  it  may  hap- 
pen. Women  of  the  camp  sell  food  and  drink,  and 
carry  on  rough  flirtations  with  the  men.  Now  it  is 


438  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

a  wild  carouse  whose  uproar  is  uppermost,  then  a 
quarrel,  then  a  rude  harangue.  Representatives  of 
the  historic  corps  that  make  up  the  army  one  after 
another  become  spokesmen, — the  dragoons  of  But- 
tler,  the  jaegers  of  Hoik,  the  light  cavalry  of  Iso- 
lani,  the  cuirassiers  of  Pappenheim.  Some  are 
from  Southern  Belgium,  Walloons  ;  some  Italians, 
Irish,  Scotch,  Swiss,  North  Germans,  Bohemians  ; 
some  from  the  extreme  frontier  toward  the  Turks. 
It  appears  from  their  conversation  that  they  have 
changed  from  party  to  party,  crossed  and  recrossed 
the  continent  in  their  campaigns,  plundered  and 
struggled  in  the  wildest  of  forays  and  marches.  What 
is  it  that  binds  the  utterly  heterogeneous  mass  to- 
gether, who  seem  to  have  no  link  of  sympathy,  no 
common  faith,  tongue,  or  race?  It  is  made  to  ap- 
pear that  it  is  the  mysterious  spell  of  Wallensteiu 
alone,  and  we  come  to  feel  in  many  ways  the  strange 
supremacy  he  exercises.  They  are  the  offscourings 
of  the  earth,  but  most  picturesque  in  their  rascality, 
and  the  awe  with  which  their  leader  has  inspired 
them,  as  their  lawless  talk  records  it,  has  in  it  some- 
thing of  the  sublime.  "  Not  he  it  is,"  says  the  pro- 
logue to  the  first  representation  of  the  "  Camp  "  at 
Weimar,  "  who  will  appear  to-night  upon  the  scene  ; 
but  in  the  audacious  squadrons  whom  his  will  might- 
ily sways,  whom  his  spirit  ensouls,  you  shall  en- 
counter his  shadow,  until  tho  muse  dires  to  place 
the  man  himself  before  you  in  his  living  form."  It 
is  a  towering,  extraordinary  personality,  which,  un- 
seen, already  oppresses  us  as  a  thing  of  grandeur. 
•«  I  have  seen  them  perform  '  Wallenstein's  Camp,'  " 


SCHILLER.  439 

says  Madame  de  Stael.  "  It  seemed  as  if  we  were 
in  the  midst  of  an  army.  The  impression  it  pro- 
duces is  so  warlike  that  when  it  was  performed  on 
the  stage  in  Berlin  before  the  soldiers,  who  were 
about  to  depart  for  the  army,  shouts  of  enthusiasm 
were  heard  on  every  side."  l 

When  we  pass  from  the  ranks  to  the  circle  of  the 
officers,  with  whom  we  find  ourselves  in  the  "  Pic- 
colomini,"  though  the  station  is  higher,  the  tone  is 
as  reckless  as  in  the  intercourse  of  the  jaegers  and 
musketeers.  The  chiefs  are  assembling  with  their 
troops  and  squadrons  at  Pilsen,  in  Bohemia,  all 
names  luridly  famous,  for  the  most  part  brave  in  the 
battle-field,  and  merciless  in  the  foray  and  sack  of 
cities.  Only  two  are  of  a  different  type,  Octavio 
and  Max  Piccolomini,  father  and  son,  to  both  of 
whom  Wallenstein  is  represented  as  strongly  bound, 
and  who  are  trusted  in  the  highest  degree.  Max, 
although  but  a  youth,  is  a  famous  soldier;  and 
when  for  the  last  time  the  bloody  sabres  had  burned 
forth  in  the  battle  ardor  on  the  brow  of  Pappen- 
heim  and  he  sank  at  Liitzen,  the  cuirassiers  chose 
Max  at  once  to  be  their  colonel  in  his  place.  Alone 
among  the  leaders  he  is  not  an  historic  figure  ;  he  is 
Schiller's  own  creation,  into  which  he  poured  his 
conception  of  nobleness.  He  is  the  darling  of  the 
troopers,  and  also  of  his  peers  in  rank,  who  speak 
enthusiastically  of  his  deeds  of  prowess.  Octavio 
is.  represented  as  astute  and  politic,  secretly  schem- 
ing to  overthrow  the  designs  of  Wallenstein,  not 


"L'Allemagne." 


440  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

from  hatred  for  him,  but  because  he  is  loyal  to  the 
emperor.  To  avoid  treason  to  the  kaiser  he  com- 
mits treason  toward  his  friend,  and  is  the  instru- 
ment through  whom  the  duke's  schemes  are  thwarted. 
Uncurbed  as  the  leaders  are,  the  power  of  Fried- 
land  is  supreme  over  all  except  Qctavio,  and  when 
an  imperial  councillor  from  the  court  at  Vienna  ap- 
pears among  them,  he  scarcely  escapes  violent  treat- 
ment. Octavio  Piccolomini  alone  shows  him  re- 
spect. Max  meets  him  with  coldness  and  reproaches, 
and  in  one  passionate  outburst  hints  escape  which 
prove  to  his  father  that  he  loves  Thekla,  the  daugh- 
ter of  Wallenstein. 

And  now  at  length,  after  the  shadow  which  has 
been  impending  more  and  more  heavily,  the  sub- 
stance itself  appears.  The  immediate  prelude  to 
the  entrance  of  Wallenstein1  emphasizes  that  vision- 
ary side  of  his  character  which  Schiller  makes  so 
prominent,  and  which  has  much  to  do  with  the  fasci- 
nation felt  by  the  beholder.  Seni,  the  astrologer, 
prepares  the  presence-chamber,  muttering  spells 
and  ordering  the  furniture  as  the  stars  decree. 
The  baton  of  command  is  brought  in  by  a  page,  and 
the  great  doors  at  the  rear  are  swung  back.  Lud- 
wig  Tieck  has  given  an  account  of  the  impression 
made  by  an  actor  of  genius  who  appeared  in  the 
part  of  Wallenstein  at  the  first  representation  :  "  As 
he  entered,  it  seemed  to  the  spectators  as  if  an  in- 
visible protecting  power  went  with  him ;  in  every 
word  the  deep,  proud  man  implied  a  superhuman 
mastery  belonging  to  him  alone.  He  spoke  ear- 
nestly and  truly  only  to  himself ;  to  all  others  he 


SCHILLER.  441 

condescended.  One  felt  that  he  lived  in  a  sublime 
illusion,  and  as  often  as  he  raised  his  voice  in  order 
to  speak  about  the  stars  and  their  influence,  a  mys- 
terious awe  seized  upon  the  auditors."1 

It  has  been  acutely  said  that  in  Wallenstein  we 
see  both  Hamlet  and  Macbeth.2  He  is  like  Hamlet 
in  his  protracted  hesitation  before  decision.  Schiller 
represents  him  as  still  undetermined  before  a  crime, 
the  thought  of  committing  which  he  has  long  enter- 
tained. At  his  entrance  his  soul  is  still  halting. 
Shall  he  remain  true  to  his  allegiance  to  the  em- 
peror, or  plunge  into  the  treason  which  he  has  been 
meditating?  His  wife  tells  him  of  slights  put  upon 
her  at  Vienna  ;  his  sister  urges  him  to  revolt.  While 
seated  among  his  generals,  the  imperial  councillor, 
in  a  speech  full  of  dignity,  rehearses  the  leader's  past 
services,  the  wonderful  array  of  battles,  marches,  con- 
quests ;  then  calls  him  to  account  for  his  present 
negligence.  Wallenstein  rises  angrily  ;  his  subordi- 
nates are  full  of  sullen  mutiny,  but  the  leader  is 
Hamlet  still.  There  are  certain  conspirators  whose 
interest  it  is  to  push  Wallenstein  over  the  brink 
from  which  he  has  so  long  recoiled.  Octavio  they 
distrust ;  but  when  a  suspicion  of  him  is  suggested 
to  Wallenstein,  the  leader  thrusts  it  aside  with  dis- 
dain. 

Teachest  thou 

Me  to  know  my  followers?    Sixteen  times 
I've  marched  in  service  with  that  old  campaigner! 
Besides,  I've  cast  his  horoscope,  and  know 
We  both  are  born  beneath  like  constellations.* 

1  Quoted  by  Scherr.    Das  Leben  Schillers. 

*  D.  F.  Strauss. 

8  Piccolomini,  act  ii,  scene  2. 


442  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

The  conspirators  undertake  to  procure  from  the 
leaders  a  promise  of  unconditional  submission  to 
Wallenstein,  accomplishing  this  end  by  moans  of  a 
trick,  while  they  are  plunged  in  the  revelry  of  a 
banquet.  Max  alone  foils  them,  but  they  hope  to 
secure  him  through  his  love  for  Thekla.  And  what 
is  the  portraiture  of  Thekla?  The  purest  loveliness 
and  heroism  !  From  her  earliest  childhood  she  has 
been  educated  in  a  cloister,  separated  from  her 
father,  of  whom  she  only  knows  as  the  rumor  of 
his  exploits  has  sounded  into  the  quiet  of  her  retire- 
ment. Just  arrived  at  womanhood,  she  is  sent  for 
by  him,  and  to  Max  is  entrusted  the  charge,  at 
the  head  of  the  Pappenheimers,  of  conducting 
her  through  the  troubled  country  to  her  father's 
camp.  She  loves  the  paladin  whom  she  thus  en- 
counters, and  who  also  offers  his  love  to  her.  At 
length,  attired  in  the  splendor  befitting  a  princess, 
she  appears  before  her  father,  who  receives  her 
with  warm  admiration.  His  love  for  her  is  great, 
but  he  means  to  make  her  the  instrument  of  his 
ambition. 

Lo !  against  fate  I  murmured 
That  it  denied  a  son  to  me,  who  might  be 
Heir  of  my  name  and  fortune  in  the  future,  — 
In  a  proud  line  of  princes  might  send  forward 
This  life  of  mine,  so  soon  to  be  extinguished. 
To  fate  I  did  injustice.     Here  on  this 
Young  head,  so  sweet  with  maiden  bloom,  I'll  lay 
My  wreath  of  glory  won  in  fields  of  warfare. 
Not  as  for  lost  I'll  count  it,  if  some  time 
I  twine  it  round  her  brow  so  beautiful, 
Transformed  into  a  regal  decoration.1 

1  Piccolomini,  act  ii,  scene  3. 


SCHILLER.  443 

The  conspirators  plot  to  chain  Max,  through  her, 
to  hor  father's  side.  She  seos  that  she  is  being 
used  in  some  way  for  a  purpose,  precisely  what  she 
cannot  divine.  The  scenes  between  the  lovers  are 
full  of  beauty,  but  she  warns  the  unsuspecting  Max 
to  be  on  his  guard.  When  alone,  in  sorrowful  fore- 
boding that  nothing  but  misfortune  lies  before  them, 
she  sings  the  heart-breaking  song  which  stands 
in  German  poetry  with  the  cries  of  Margaret  in 
"Faust,"  the  masterpieces  of  pathos. 

Not  until  Max  hears  it  from  his  father  has  the 
thought  occurred  to  him  that  Wallenstein  could 
commit  treason.  He  pronounces  it  utterly  incredi- 
ble. Octavio  presses  upon  him  with  proofs,  telling 
him  at  last  that  he  had  it  from  the  duke's  own  lips 
that  he  meant  to  join  the  Swedes.  Even  now  Max 
refuses  to  believe,  and  nothing  marks  his  spotless 
nobleness  more  plainly  than  his  outspoken  aversion 
to  his  father's  conduct,  who  maintains  toward  Fried- 
land  the  mask  of  friendship  while  secretly  hostile. 
Octavio  claims  that,  for  reasons  of  policy,  the  delu- 
sion must  be  maintained.  Max  will  listen  to  no 
explanation,  but  bursts  forth : 

Oh,  this  state  policy !     How  do  I  curse  it! 
You  will,  through  your  state  policy,  yet  drive  him 
Into  some  step.     Ah,  yes ;  it  may  be 
Because  you  wish  the  noble  leader  guilty, 
Guilty  ye' 11  make  him.1 

He  hurries  forth,  determined  to  learn  the  truth 
from  Friedland  himself. 


Piccolomini,  act  v,  scene  3. 


444  GERMAN  LITERATURE 

For  a  long  time  it  is  the  Hamlet  phase  of  Wal- 
lenstein  that  we  see.  He  stands  on  the  brink  of 
the  crime,  but  it  is  too  great  for  him,  as  the  duty 
laid  upon  Hamlet  was  too  great.  He  still  palters  in 
suspense,  observing  the  courses  of  the  stars  ;  and 
even  when  word  comes  that  his  trusted  messenger, 
with  papers  proving  his  intercourse  with  the  enemy, 
has  been  taken  prisoner  and  is  in  the  emperor's 
hands,  he  cannot  persuade  himself  that  it  is  too  late 
to  withdraw  if  he  chooses.  Already  in  the  camp  a 
Swedish  colonel  has  appeared,  commissioned  to 
conclude  with  him  the  treason.  With  soldierly 
definiteness  the  Swede  gives  the  conditions  of  the 
bargain,  and  at  the  sharp  statement  Wallenstein 
recoils.  The  conspirators  surround  him  in  anguish. 
Now  it  is  that  his  sister,  the  countess,  with  taunts 
and  arguments  that  recall  Lady  Macbeth,  finally 
stings  the  vacillator  into  determination.  He  signs 
the  compact  with  the  Swede,  and  is  henceforth 
prompt  and  bold. 

Wallenstein  entrusts  to  Octavio  the  charge  of 
bringing  to  the  camp  from  a  distance  the  Spanish 
regiments,  and  when,  immediately  after,  Max  comes 
to  him  as  he  has  threatened,  in  order  to  learn  the 
truth,  Friedland  confirms  all  that  Octavio  has  re- 
ported. The  conspirators  are  aghast  that  Octavio 
has  been  sent  away.  Wallenstein  tells  them  mys- 
teriously why  it  is  that  he  puts  such  trust  iu  him. 

In  human  life  come  sometimes  moments  when 
Mun  to  the  world-soul  nearer  is  than  common, 
And  questions  freely  with  his  destiny ; 
And  such  an  hour  it  was,  when  in  the  night 


SCHILLER.  445 

That  passed  before  the  bloody  fight  at  Liitzen, 

Thoughtful,  against  a  tree  I  leaning  stood, 

And  looked  forth  o'er  the  plain.     The  soldiers'  firea 

Burned  luridly  within  the  wrapping  mist. 

The  dull,  far  crash  of  arms,  the  sentry's  cry 

Monotonous,  alone  the  stillness  broke. 

I  yearned  to  know  who  was  the  trustiest 

Of  all  the  souls  whom  the  great  camp  encompassed. 

"  Give  me  a  sign,  O  fate,"  I  prayed.     "  It  shall  be 

He  who  next  morning  comes  to  meet  me  first, 

Bringing  along  some  token  of  affection." 

Straightway  I  fell  asleep,  as  thus  I  pondered, 

And,  in  the  spirit,  into  battle  rushed. 

Great  was  the  press ;  a  bullet  killed  my  horse ; 

I  sank,  and  over  me  indifferently 

Passed  horse  and  rider  in  the  fearful  charge. 

Panting  I  lay,  like  unto  some  one  dying, 

Crushed  into  dust  beneath  the  trampling  hoofs. 

Then  seized  me  suddenly  a  helpful  arm. 

It  was  Octavio's.    I  sudden  woke ; 

Lo,  day  had  dawned ;  Octavio  stood  before  me. 

"My  brother,"  said  he,  "do  not  ride  to-day 

The  dapple,  as  you're  wont,  but  rather  mount 

This  surer  steed  which  I  have  chosen  for  thee : 

Do  it  in  love  to  me ;  a  dream  has  warned  me." 

It  was  that  horse's  swiftness  that  did  snatch  me 

From  the  dragoons  of  Bannier,  hard  at  hand. 

My  cousin  rode  the  dapple  on  that  day, 

And  horse  and  rider  saw  I  never  more.1 

"  That  was  a  chance,"  says  Hlo,  one  of  the  con- 
spirators. Tieck,  describing  the  performance  of  the 
great  actor,  from  whose  account  I  have  already 
quoted,  says  of  the  rendering  of  this  passage: 
"  During  the  recitation,  his  powerful  eye  lost  itself, 
as  if  it  were  pleased  with  wandering  in  the  shadows 
of  the  invisible  world.  A  weird  smile  triumphed 


Wallenstein's  Death,  act  ii,  scene  3. 


446  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

at  the  infallibility  of  the  dreams  and  forebodings. 
The  words  flowed  mechanically  almost,  as  if  it  were 
superfluous  to  say  that  the  rider  of  the  dapple  must 
be  lost ;  and  hardly  had  Illo  said  the  words,  *  That 
was  a  chance,'  than  with  the  passage, 

There  is  no  chance ; 
And  what  to  us  seems  blindest  destiny, 
Precisely  that  springs  from  the  deepest  sources, 

the  whole  giant  greatness  of  the  star  superstition 
rises.  As  if  from  immediate  inspiration,  he  said, 

"Pis  signed  and  scaled  that  he  is  my  good  angel, 

and  concluded  then,  as  if  injured  and  disturbed, 

And  now  no  word  more." 

Octavio,  though  in  power  far  below  Wallenstein, 
is  much  superior  to  his  fellow-generals.  Before  he 
departs  on  the  mission  which  Friedland,  in  his  blind 
trust,  has  given  him,  he  wins  his  comrades  artfully 
to  his  side,  one  after  another.  They  easily  are  led 
to  disregard  their  compact  of  unconditional  submis- 
sion ;  to  them  oaths  and  signatures  are  of  little 
moment  at  best,  and  this  was  unfairly  extorted. 
Most  important  of  all,  with  bold  adroitness  he 
gains  the  Irish  mercenary,  the  ruthless  Buttler,  con- 
triving to  excite  his  rage  by  revealing  to  him  an 
injury  committed  upon  him  by  the  duke.  Buttler 
enters  with  a  devilish  zeal  into  Octavio' s  plot,  en- 
treating to  be  left  with  his  dragoons  near  Wallen- 
stein, darkly  saying: 

By  the  living  God, 
Ye  give  him  over  to  his  evil  angel ! 


SCHILLER.  447 

Max  too,  in  spite  of  Octavio's  threats  and  com- 
mands, remains  behind  with  the  Pappenheimers. 

While  the  ground  is  thus  undermined  beneath  his 
feet,  Wallenstein  remains  serenely  ignorant.  The 
leaders  who  have  been  so  loud-voiced  in  their  de- 
votion, in  fear  before  the  danger  of  the  treason  or 
won  by  bribes,  fall  away  from  him.  One  by  one,  in 
the  night  and  in  silence,  with  treachery  as  dark  as 
that  of  him  whom  they  betray,  a  coil  within  the 
coil,  they  depart  with  their  troops,  the  ranks  not 
knowing  the  why  and  wherefore  of  the  breathless  tu- 
mult until  they  are  far  away.  There  are  left  behind 
the  distracted  Max,  and  the  grim  mercenary  grown 
gray  amid  scenes  of  terror,  to  whom  Wallenstein  is 
delivered  over  as  to  an  evil  angel.  The  stars  have 
as  yet  uttered  110  hint  of  danger,  and  the  leader 
stands  unsuspicious  while  the  thunders  are  about 
to  break  upon  him.  Never  has  his  pride  towered 
so  high.  He  learns  now  for  the  first  time  of  the 
love  of  Thekla  and  Max.  His  cheek  reddens  with 
a  haughty  flush : 

I  love  him,  hold  him  worthy,  but  I  pray, 
What  has  that  with  my  daughter's  hand  to  do? 
He  is  a  subject,  and  my  son-in-law 
I  will  upon  the  thrones  of  Europe  seek. 
Crowned  I  will  see  her,  or  I  will  not  live. 

Even  at  this  very  moment  come  messengers  with 
evil  tidings. 

"  Was  it  your  command  that  the  Croats  should 
go  forth?  All  the  villages  around  are  empty." 

"  Did  you  despatch  Deodat?  He  has  gone  with- 
out sign  ;  so  Gotz,  Maradas,  Kolatto." 


448  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

Close  upon  the  heels  of  one  messenger  follows 
another,  bolt  upon  bolt,  until  Wallenstein  sinks  as 
if  stunned,  his  face  in  his  hands.1  Of  the  part 
Octavio  has  played,  even  he  can  no  longer  doubt ; 
pathetically  he  apostrophizes  his  false  friend,  and 
recovering  himself,  towers  more  grandly  in  the  mis- 
fortune. He  steps  forth  in  armor,  sword  in  hand,  a 
war-god  in  might  and  majesty,  in  the  guise  in  which 
he  has  swept  so  often  to  victory,  with  all  the  power, 
though  without  the  frenzy,  of  the  desperate  Macbeth. 

In  the  night  only  Friedland's  star  can  beam. 

*    *    *    Doubt  disappears; 
I  fight  now  for  my  head  and  for  my  life. 

A  scene  of  extraordinary  tenderness  and  most 
picturesque  power  follows.  Ten  cuirassiers,  a  depu- 
tation from  the  Pappenheimers,  the  *'  Old  Guard" 
of  this  Napoleon  of  a  former  time,  march  in  with 
steady  discipline,  led  by  a  corporal.  It  is  Max's 
regiment,  the  flower  of  the  army.  Imagine  them, — 
gray,  stalwart,  scarred,  in  corslets  dinted  with  the 
blows  of  Liitzen,  stepping  with  one  foot-beat,  drawn 
up  at  length  in  rigid  line.  The  lofty  leader  receives 
them  with  deep  respect,  addressing  them  one  by  one 
by  name. 

"  I  know  thee  well.  Thou  art  out  of  Briiggen, 
in  Flanders.  Thy  name  is  Merci,  —  Henri  Merci. 
Thou  wert  cut  oft'  on  the  march,  surrounded  by  the 
Hessians,  and  didst  fight  thy  way  with  a  hundred  and 
fifty  through  their  thousand. ' '  Turning  to  a  second, 


1  "Wallenstein's  Death,  act  iii,  scene  4. 


SCHILLER.  449 

"Thou  wert  among  the  volunteers  that  seized  the 
Swedish  battery  at  Altenburg."  To  a  third,  "And 
thou  it  was  who  broughtest  in  the  Swedish  Colonel 
Diibald,  in  the  camp  at  Niirnberg." 

Each  has  done  some  heroic  deed,  and  the  only 
promotion  desired  or  received  is  the  privilege  of 
serving  in  this  corps.  They  have  come  to  learn 
from  the  duke's  own  lips  what  he  intends.  They 
discredit  the  reports  as  to  his  treason,  and  will 
stand  by  him  unless  he  tells  them  himself  he  is  a 
traitor.  Wallenstein  talks  with  them  as  friend  to 
friend,  though  sundered  so  widely  in  rank,  yet  dear 
brothers  in  arms,  loving  and  beloved,  comrades  since 
youth  through  dangers  and  hardships  untold,  in- 
separably bound  to  one  another  until  now.  He 
gives  utterance  to  the  nobler  purpose  that  is  blended 
with  his  ambition,  to  restore  to  the  empire  peace 
after  the  weary  years  of  war  ;  and  as  he  unfolds  his 
design,  so  grandly  beneficent,  when  we  think  of  the 
character  of  the  court  from  which  he  has  torn  him- 
self, we  feel  like  saying:  "Better  faithlessness 
with  such  aims  than  fidelity  to  the  bigot  and  ty- 
rant." The  simple  hearts  of  the  soldiers  are  touched. 
He  has  not  yet  distinctly  said  that  he  means  to  ac- 
complish this  by  being  false  to  his  oath.  A  tremor 
of  indecision  passes  along  the  rigid  line  ;  the  knees 
seem  about  to  bend,  that  falling  before  him  they 
may  promise  him  new  fidelity,  and  the  bearded  lips 
quiver  toward  a  shout  of  enthusiasm.  But  Buttler 
breaks  in  impetuously :  "  General,  your  body-guard 
are  tearing  the  imperial  eagles  from  their  banners." 
It  is  a  definite  act  of  treason.  Abruptly  the  corporal 


450  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

gives  the  command,  "  March."  They  are  again  men 
of  iron.  "Halt,  children,  halt ! ' '  cries  Wallenstein, 
despairingly.  Onward  they  go,  in  utter  disobedience. 
They  are  out  of  the  presence,  with  their  comrades, 
and  instantly  the  whole  corps  is  drawn  out  before  the 
palace  with  hostile  purpose.  They  demand  their 
colonel,  Max,  who  they  declare  is  there  a  prisoner. 
Max  is  indeed  there,  the  prisoner  of  love,  stand- 
ing at  Thekla's  side.  Wallenstein  threatens  and  ap- 
peals ;  Max  wrestles  with  his  agony ;  while,  with 
an  increasing  uproar  of  shouts  and  cannon-shot, 
the  Pappenheimers  press  on  from  without.  Shall 
the  youth  follow  his  duty,  or  stay  with  his  traitor 
leader  and  the  maid  to  whom  his  soul  is  given  ?  He 
appeals  to  Thekla,  unmanned  as  he  is,  to  decide  for 
him.  The  passage  that  follows  is  the  most  exalted 
in  the  drama.  Thekla,  although  in  the  decision  her 
heart  breaks,  bids  him  not  hesitate  : 

Follow  thy  first  impulse. 
True  to  thyself,  so  art  thou  true  to  me ; 
Fate  separates  us,  yet  our  hearts  are  one. 
A  bloody  gap  must  part  eternally 
Thee  from  the  ill-starred  house  of  Wallenstein. 
Forth,  forth ;  O,  hasten  quickly  forth,  to  sever 
Thy  cause  from  ours,  for  our  cause  is  accursed. 
My  father's  guilt  hurls  me  too  to  destruction.1 

Just  here  is  heard  from  without  a  loud,  wild, 
long-resounding  cry,  "  Vivat  Ferdinandus  !  "  Cui- 
rassiers, with  drawn  swords,  throng  into  the  hall, 
collecting  fast  in  the  background,  while  spirited 
passages  from  the  Pappenheimers'  march  seem  to 


Wallenstein' s  Death,  act  iii,  scene  21. 


SCHILLER.  451 

call  their  chief.  For  the  last  time  Max  seeks  to 
approach  Thekla ;  but  Wallenstein,  determined,  in 
his  vesture  of  steel,  stands  between.  Max  cries  : 

Blow,  blow,  ye  trumpets,  all  so  wild  and  shrill ! 

Would  that  ye  were  the  trumpets  of  the  Swedes 

That  I  might  go  from  hence  straight  to  the  field,  — 

At  once  receive  into  my  tortured  breast 

These  naked  swords  that  flash  around  me  here. 

What  would  you  ?  have  you  come  to  force  me  hence  ? 

Drive  me  not  onward  into  black  despair. 

Think  what  you  do.    Comrades,  it  is  not  well 

To  choose  a  desperate  man  to  lead  you  on. 

What,  will  you  tear  me  forth?    Ah,  well!   Ah,  well! 

To  Furies  dark  I  dedicate  your  souls ; 

It  is  your  own  destruction  you  have  chosen. 

Who  goes  with  me,  let  him  go  forth  to  die.1 

The  hall  has  become  completely  filled  with  armed 
men  ;  the  trumpets  are  blowing  with  shorter  pauses  ; 
everywhere  is  the  gleam  of  rapidly-brandished  steel. 
A  quick  movement  among  the  cuirassiers, — they  are 
forth,  bearing  Max  in  their  midst. 

And  what  is  the  end  ?  From  Pilsen  the  scene  is 
transferred  to  the  fortress  of  Eger,  whither  the  trai- 
tor Wallenstein  has  hurried  to  meet  the  Swedes. 
On  their  way  they  hear  heavy  firing,  for  which  they 
cannot  account.  Suddenly  news  comes  by  a  Swedish 
courier  which  thrills  them  all.  This  is  his  message  : 

We  stood,  by  no  means  thinking  of  attack, 
At  Neustadt,  covered  by  but  weak  entrenchments, 
When  near  the  evening  heavy  clouds  of  dust 
Came  rolling  from  the  wood.     Our  vanguard  flying 
Hushed  into  camp  and  cried  the  foe  were  close 
We  had  but  time  to  throw  ourselves  like  lightning 


Wallenstein's  Death,  act  iii,  scene  23. 


452  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

Into  the  saddle,  when  in  full  career 
The  Pappenheimers  through  our  rampart  broke. 
In  utter  rashness  had  their  courage  led  them 
Far  on  before  the  rest.     The  Pappenheimers 
Alone  had  followed  bold  their  leader  bold. 
Recovering,  in  flank  and  front  we  pressed  them 
Most  hotly  with  the  horse  straight  to  the  ditch; 
There  stood  the  foot,  hastily  ranked,  but  stretching 
A  hedge  of  pikes  to  meet  them  as  they  came. 
Forward  they  could  not ;  they  could  not  retreat, 
Wedged  in  a  crowd  within  the  fearful  strait. 
Then  cried  the  Rhein-graf  to  their  leader  fierce 
Good  terms  proposing,  if  they  would  surrender. 
But  Colonel  Piccolomini  (his  helmet  plume 
And  flowing  hair,  disordered  in  the  foray, 
Had  made  him  known)  gave  signal  for  the  trench, 
And  spurred  his  noble  horse  across  the  first. 
His  regiment  leaped  after,  but  'twas  done ! 
Pierced  by  a  pike,  his  charger  madly  reared, 
Threw  to  the  ground  his  rider,  and  away 
Over  his  body  plunged  the  maddened  troop, 
Not  heeding  any  longer  bit  or  bridle. 
Then  raging  desperation  seized  the  men ; 
"When  they  beheld  their  leader  fall  and  perish, 
They  thought  no  longer  of  their  own  salvation. 
They  fought  like  raging  tigers,  and  our  force 
No  quarter  showed,  enraged  by  the  resistance. 
The  dreadful  battle's  end  came  not  until 
Their  last  man  fell. 

To-day  we  buried  him. 

Twelve  youths  of  noblest  birth  the  body  carried; 
The  whole  command  accompanied  the  bier ; 
A  laurel  decked  the  coffin,  and  the  Rhein-graf 
Himself  placed  there  his  own  victorious  sword. 
Tears  were  not  wanting  for  his  fate  unhappy. 
Many  of  ours  have  known  his  spirit's  greatness, 
And  felt  his  gentleness  when  taken  captive. 
His  fate  touched  all  of  us :  the  Rhein-graf  longed 
To  spare  his  life,  but  he  himself  refused  it. 
'Tis  said  he  wished  to  die.1 

1  Wallenstein's  Death,  act  iv,  scene  10. 


SCHILLER.  453 

This  is  the  message.  Thekla  totters  under  the 
stroke  ;  for  the  moment  her  mind  becomes  disor- 
dered. She  hears  her  lover's  voice  calling  to  her 
from  afar ;  around  her  troop  the  multitudinous 
ghosts  of  those  who  died  with  him,  reproaching  her 
for  being  less  faithful  than  they.  She  goes  forth  in 
the  night  to  the  grave  where  the  Swedes  have  buried 
him,  and  we  see  her  no  more. 

We  are  now  at  the  close.  As  night  comes,  the 
conspirators,  secure  of  making  junction  with  the 
Swedes  close  at  hand,  engage  in  loud  revel.  Sus- 
picion is  everywhere  lulled ;  Wallenstein,  in  a  re- 
mote wing  of  the  fortress,  prepares  for  rest ;  but  we 
know  what  it  means  when  the  gloomy  Buttler  says  to 
a  subordinate  : 

Find  me  twelve  strong  dragoons ;  arm  them  with  pikes, 
For  there  must  be  no  firing. 

In  the  shadows  the  soul  of  Wallenstein  is  cast  down. 
He  utters  a  manly  outburst  of  grief  over  the  youth 
he  has  loved : 

See  him  again !     Oh,  never,  —  never  again ! 

He  is  the  fortunate ;  his  life  is  ended. 

For  him  there  is  no  longer  any  future, 

And  fate  for  him  no  farther  treachery  spins. 

His  life  lies  foldless,  shining  pure  behind  him. 

No  darkness  spots  it.     No  unhappy  hour 

Knocks  for  him  now,  some  fell  misfortune  bringing. 

Far  has  he  gone  from  wish  and  fear ;  belongs 

No  more  to  the  deceitful,  fickle  planets. 

Oh,  it  is  well  with  him ;  but  who  shall  say 

What  the  next  hour,  so  darkly  veiled,  brings  us?1 

He  lies  down  perturbed.     The  relentless  Buttler  has 


Wallenstein's  Death,  act  v,  scene  3. 


454  GERMAN   LITERATURE, 

planned  all  well.  The  conspirators  are  slain  at  the 
feast,  and  now  the  evil  angel  hovers  above  the 
greater  victim.  A  chamberlain  interposes,  and  is 
run  through  the  body  by  a  dragoon.  There  is  a 
rush  over  the  form  into  a  gallery ;  two  doors  are 
heard  to  crash,  one  after  another,  as  they  are  burst 
in,  voices  deadened  by  the  distance,  a  clash  of  arms, 
then  all  at  once  a  profound  silence.  The  deed  is 
done. 

The  trilogy  of  "  Wallenstein "  is  a  magnificent 
picture  of  the  seventeenth  century,  faithful  to  the 
minutest  details.  In  preparing  for  the  representa- 
tion Schiller  did  not  disdain  to  take  anxious  care 
even  for  the  costuming;  and  even  Gothe,  who 
during  the  seven  long  years  of  its  composition  had 
been  taken  again  and  again  into  counsel,  and  beheld 
the  result  of  his  friend's  intense  labor  with  enthusi- 
asm, concerned  himself  to  have  strictly  correct  the 
fashion  of  the  doublets,  the  length  of  the  partisans, 
the  workmanship  of  the  swords,  as  he  had  before 
concerned  himself  with  the  conception  of  the  char- 
acters. In  a  letter  which  Schiller  writes  to  his 
friend  Korner,  he  says  :  "  My  deepest  heart  is  not 
fairly  interested  in  the  work.  I  am  somewhat  cold 
with  all  my  enthusiasm.  Two  figures  excepted, — 
Max  and  Thekla,  —  whom  I  love,  I  treat  all  the  rest, 
especially  the  main  character,  merely  with  the  love 
of  the  artist."  The  remark,  if  we  develop  what  lies 
within  it,  is  very  significant.  For  the  most  part, 
the  characters  of  "  Wallenstein  "  are  men  of  violence, 
thrown  to  the  surface  in  a  period  of  convulsion, 
tragically  picturesque ,  but  shapes  of  terror .  In  Wai- 


SCHILLER. 


455 


lenstein  something  higher  indeed  is  presented,  but 
in  him  the  ruling  quality  is  boundless  ambition.  He 
is  originally  noble,  and  his  finer  nature  long  holds 
him  back  from  the  abyss  of  crime.  Even  when  his 
treason  is  committed,  we  feel  that  it  is  immensely 
palliated  by  the  beneficence  which  he  means  to  work, 
as  he  describes  it  in  his  speech  to  the  wavering  Pap- 
penheimers.  Still  it  is  the  securing  of  good  by  the 
commission  of  evil ;  to  the  bonds  of  an  evil  passion 
he  is  distinctly  a  captive,  and  he  sacrifices  to  his  sin- 
ful selfishness  the  happiness  of  those  he  loves  best, 
his  daughter  Thekla  and  Max.  It  is  all  magnificent 
and  impressive,  — this  mighty  star-questioning  Titan, 
about  whose  feet  bend  submissively  so  many  thousand 
darkened  souls,  —  but  we  can  understand  Schiller 
when  he  says  his  heart  is  not  interested  in  him. 
Toward  Max  and  Thekla,  however,  his  heart  goes 
forth.  These  portraitures,  as  a  great  writer  has 
said,  "are  two  forms  of  celestial  beauty,  who  dif- 
fuse an  ethereal  radiance  over  all  this  tragedy ;  they 
call  forth  the  finer  feelings,  where  other  feelings  had 
been  aroused  ;  they  superadd  to  the  stirring  pomp  of 
scenes  which  had  already  kindled  our  imaginations 
the  enthusiasm  of  bright,  unworn  humanity,  the 
bloom  of  young  desire,  the  purple  light  of  love. 
There  are  few  scenes  in  poetry  more  sublimely  pa- 
thetic than  their  parting.  We  behold  the  sinking, 
but  still  fiery,  glory  of  Wallenstein,  opposed  to  the 
impetuous  despair  of  Max,  torn  asunder  by  the 
claims  of  duty  and  love  ;  the  calm,  but  broken- 
hearted, Thekla.  There  is  a  physical  pomp  cor- 
responding to  the  moral  grandeur  of  the  action ; 


456  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

the  successive  revolt  and  departure  of  the  troops  is 
heard  without  the  walls  of  the  palace  ;  the  trumpets 
of  the  Pappenheimers  reecho  the  wild  feelings  of 
their  leader.  Max  is  forced  away  by  his  soldiers, 
and  next  day  come  tidings  of  his  fate,  which  no 
heart  is  hard  enough  to  bear  unmoved."  1 

Precisely  where  Wallenstein  is  wanting,  on  the 
moral  side,  are  Max  and  Thekla  strong.  Max  is 
aghast  at  the  very  mention  by  his  father  of  Wallen- 
stein's  meditated  treason,  and  heart-broken  at  its 
confirmation.  The  incomparable  Thekla,  at  the 
moment  of  crisis,  flings  to  the  winds  his  happiness 
and  her  own,  while  she  bids  him  be  faithful,  and 
abandon  her  father  and  herself.  There  is  in  them 
fidelity  to  the  highest  duty. 

"A  poem,"  says  Taine,  "  is  like  a  shell.  Behind 
the  shell  there  was  an  animal ;  behind  the  poem 
too  was  a  man.  We  know  the  creature  from  the 
convolutions  which  were  moulded  upon  him  ;  we 
know  the  soul  by  that  wThich  grew  upon  it  and  from 
it."  2  The  "  Wallenstein  "  grew  upon  and  from  the 
spirit  of  Schiller ;  we  see  the  soul  through  the 
work,  —  the  creature  through  the  convolutions  of 
the  shell.  But  is  it  always  so?  Do  the  greatest 
poetic  artists  thus  reveal  themselves  ?  Shakespeare 
does  not ;  Homer  does  not ;  Gothe,  at  his  best,  does 
not.  The  remark  has  been  quoted  that  Schiller 
always  shines  through  in  his  plays.  To  apply  to 
Schiller  the  figure  of  Taine  is  only  expressing  the 


1  Carlyle :  Life  of  Schiller. 

1  Histoire  de  la  Literature  Anglaise. 


SCHILLER.  457 

same  idea  by  a  different  trope.  "  Wallenstein  "  was 
moulded  upon  the  soul  of  Schiller,  —  a  soul  very 
lovable,  —  but  the  fact  that  it  is  so  visible  detracts 
from  the  artistic  result.  It  is  plainly  a  subjective 
composition,  the  poet  bodying  forth  the  ideals  of 
his  own  spirit,  not  painting  the  world  of  men  and 
women.  Though  truer  to  nature  than  the  characters 
of  "The  Bobbers,"  the  figures  in  "Wallenstein" 
are  far  enough  from  being  Shakespearian  tran- 
scripts. Max  and  Thekla  in  particular  are  supernal 
beings,  of  a  purity  more  than  mortal,  —  not  flesh 
and  blood  types. 

Some  dramas  of  Schiller  may  have  particular  ad- 
vantages over  "  Wilhelm  Tell."  For  my  own  part 
I  am  more  impressed  by  "  Wallenstein."  "  Marie 
Stuart,"  the  "Maid  of  Orleans,"  the  "Bride  of 
Messina"  have  each  their  admirers.  Certainly, 
however,  "Wilhelm  Tell"  is  the  best  known  and 
most  popular,  and  perhaps  it  is  right  to  say  it  is  ar- 
tistically the  most  perfect.  In  this  Schiller  reached 
more  nearly  than  elsewhere  that  after  which  he  had 
striven  since  he  turned  himself  again  to  the  drama, 
namely  a  good  objective  presentment,  in  which  he 
succeeded  without  denying  his  own  great  nature  or 
pushing  it  into  the  background.  Not  by  a  particle 
is  his  ardor  diminished  for  the  great  ideas  which  in- 
spired him  when  he  wrote  "The  Kobbers."  His 
sense  of  human  dignity  is  as  noble,  his  love  for  free- 
dom as  absorbing  ;  these  have  grown  with  his  growth 
and  strengthened  with  his  strength  ;  but  now  he  ex- 
presses them,  not  in  an  unreal  world,  through  the 


458  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

medium  of  moral  characterizations,  but  through 
creations  conformed  closely  to  life,  whose  individu- 
ality is  that  of  veritable  men. 

Descending  from  the  Saint  Gothard  Pass,  like  so 
many  another  traveller  I  left  Andermatt  in  a  mist, 
and  when  I  came  at  last  to  the  Devil's  Bridge  a 
tempest  was  howling  through  the  ravine.  The  rain 
swept  downward  ;  the  roaring  Reuss  threw  its  spray 
upward,  as  if  the  demons  were  fighting  in  the  black 
pass  between  the  awful  precipices,  with  floods  for 
weapons.  I  pressed  on  past  the  towering  Bristen- 
stock;  drank  at  the  cold  torrent  that  runs  from 
the  Maderaner-Thal  past  Amsteg,  and  soon  was  in 
the  open  valley  below.  At  nightfall  I  came,  foot- 
sore, upon  the  rough  pavement  of  Altorf,  and  was 
soon  at  rest  in  the  inn.  My  mind  was  full  of 
thoughts  of  Tell ;  I  obstinately  rejected  the  mythical 
explanation  of  the  story ;  I  insisted  upon  believing 
it  in  all  its  length  and  breadth.  I  beheld  with 
thorough  credulity  the  spot  pointed  out  to  me  as  the 
one  on  which  his  little  son  stood  with  the  apple  on 
his  head,  and  the  spot — a  long  bow-shot  away  — 
where  the  archer  was  posted,  the  extra  arrow  in  his 
girdle  for  the  heart  of  Gessler,  if  his  aim  toward  the 
boy  should  miss.  I  thought  with  a  thrill,  as  I  went 
to  bed,  that  I  lay  precisely  in  the  path  of  that  mem- 
orable arrow.  The  next  day  a  short  walk  brought 
me,  through  the  calm  morning,  to  the  Lake  of  the 
Four  Forest  Cantons.  How  crystal  clear  was  the 
flood !  How  gloriously  rose  the  Alps'  from  the 
quiet  mirror  to  their  snows  in  the  far-off  heavens  ! 
It  is  wondrously  fair,  but  as  I  moved  on  over  the 


SCHILLER.  459 

lake,  even  the  sense  of  natural  beauty  became  dull 
before  the  overmastering  legendary  and  historic  in- 
terest. These  were  the  spots  celebrated  in  the  tales 
heard  in  earliest  childhood,  which  had  become  almost 
part  of  the  soul.  The  little  chapel  at  the  base  of 
the  cliffs  on  the  right  marked  the  spot  where  Tell, 
his  fetters  unbound  in  Gessler's  boat  during  the 
storm,  leaped  ashore,  and  escaped  through  the 
mountain  passes.  The  patch  of  meadow  to  the  left 
was  the  field  of  the  Riitli,  where  the  freemen  gath- 
ered by  night  and  swore  to  be  one.  The  mountains 
in  front  hung  over  the  gloomy  pass  Kiissnacht, 
where  at  length  the  tyrant  fell,  Toll's  arrow  in  his 
guilty  heart.  Rarely,  rarely  beautiful  is  the  Lake  of 
the  Four  Forest  Cantons  in  its  summer  aspect.  Think 
what  feet  have  trodden  those  mountains,  what  voices 
of  manhood  have  shouted  in  those  glens,  what 
glances  darted  from  eyes  aglow  with  the  fires  of 
freedom  have  shone  in  the  dark  pine  forests,  and  the 
interest  of  the  beholder  is  doubled !  And  who  is 
the  poet  who,  gathering  from  many  sources  the  frag- 
mentary, inspiring  legends,  has  combined  all  into 
one  whole,  uttering  them  with  manful  sympathy,  so 
that  for  the  soul  the  presentment  has  the  utmost 
kindling  charm  ?  Schiller  it  is, — and  it  is  his  swan- 
song.  Even  while  before  him  moved  in  imagina- 
tion the  majestic  panorama  of  mount  and  wood 
and  lake,  the  outbursts  of  freemen  ringing  in  his 
fancy,  the  rattle  of  knightly  armor,  the  wild  peal 
of  the  Alpine  horn,  — while  he  dwelt  upon  these  and 
gave  them  all  glowing  embodiment,  precipitate  fate 
was  already  busy  at  the  silver  chord.  Scarcely  was 


460  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

the  strain  finished  when  he  passed  from  the  sons  of 
men.  I  do  not  need  to  tell  the  story  of  the  play. 
It  is  the  story  of  Tell ;  the  portrayal  of  the  effort  of 
a  most  heroic  soul,  and  the  setting  is  hardly  less 
fine  than  the  jewel  it  encloses,  —  the  painting  of  a 
magnificent  nature,  and  in  the  midst  of  it  a  race 
ground  down  by  oppressors,  and  starting  nobly  for- 
ward in  the  vindication  of  its  freedom.  Will  it  be 
believed  that  Schiller  never  set  foot  upon  the  soil  of 
Switzerland  ?  He  had  no  personal  knowledge  what- 
ever of  the  life  he  presented,  of  the  nature  of  the 
land,  of  the  character  of  the  people.  Struggling 
from  first  to  last  to  keep  the  wolf  from  his  door,  in 
narrow  surroundings,  he  never  saw  an  Alp,  perhaps 
hardly  ever  knew  a  Swiss.  It  cannot  quite  be  said 
that  he  evolved  the  land  from  the  depths  of  his  own 
consciousness ;  but  as  from  the  study  of  a  mill- 
flume,  as  already  noticed,  he  made  real  to  himself 
an  ocean  whirlpool,  with  like  power  of  imagination, 
from  the  hints  of  travellers  and  historians,  he  created 
in  his  soul  a  land  and  a  race  with  such  vivid  truth 
that  one  can  believe  himself  charmed  back  into  the 
age  and  country. 

Yet  in  artistic  respects  Schiller  never  reached 
Gothe' s  wonderful  height,  fast  though  he  grew 
toward  it.  What  he  said  himself  once  of  Gothe 
and  himself,  when  he  had  not  yet  created  his  master- 
pieces, was  always  true:  "With  Gothe  I  do  not 
measure  myself,  when  he  has  a  mind  to  apply  his 
whole  power.  He  has  more  genius  than  I,  and  at 
the  same  time  far  more  wealth  of  knowledge  ;  a 
surer  sensitive  faculty,  and  besides  all  this  an  artis- 


SCHILLER.  461 

tic  taste,  purified  and  refined  with  artistic  accom- 
plishments of  every  kind."1  Go  the  knew  actual 
nature  and  actual  men  better  than  Schiller,  compre- 
hending them  more  objectively,  and  in  their  many- 
sidedness  ;  he  presses  into  the  most  concealed  depths 
of  their  souls,  and  can  represent  their  innermost 
peculiarity.  Schiller  knows  better  what  men  should 
be,  and  feels  more  powerfully  the  aspirations  which 
lead  us  from  the  actual  to  the  ideal.  Hence  he 
knows  how  to  strike  chords  which  resound  every- 
where, to  call  man's  attention  to  his  higher  nature. 
Love  for  freedom,  enthusiasm  for  popular  welfare, 
hatred  against  tyranny, — these  ideas  prevail  within 
him  from  first  to  last ;  for  these  ideas  he  makes  it 
his  mission  to  kindle  the  world,  rather  than  to  paint 
the  world.  And  the  world  was  indeed  kindled. 
Less  an  artist  than  a  teacher  and  preacher,  he  is  in 
his  works  constantly  didactic,  constantly  exhorting. 
This  characteristic,  the  presence  of  which  in  his 
plays  is  so  often  brought  against  him  as  a  reproach, 
gained  him  a  popularity  which  without  it  he  could 
not  have  had ;  in  this  way  he  worked  immediately 
and  surely  upon  the  spirits  of  his  hearers. 

In  closing  now  my  account  of  the  writings  of 
Schiller,  let  me  describe  an  interesting  theory  con- 
cerning the  true  function  of  Taste,  to  be  found  in  his 
« '^Esthetic  Prose, ' ' 2  which  seems  to  me  the  most  valu- 
able discussion  contained  in  his  philosophical  writings. 

In  days  long  ago,  when  the  pedagogue  whose  lucu- 


*  Kurz. 

2  Briefe  tiber  die  ^Esthetische  Erziehung  des  Menschen,  translated 
by  Kev.  John  Weiss,  to  whom  I  acknowledge  obligation. 


462  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

bration  the  kind  reader  at  present  honors  was  at  the 
other  end  of  the  ferule,  there  was  a  certain  patient, 
painstaking  soul  to  whom  it  belonged  to  bring  our 
declamation  into  shape,  and  I  well  remember  a  sen- 
tence by  means  of  which  he  sought  to  train  us  in 
emphasis  and  enunciation.  "To  do  what  is  right," 
he  would  say,  "  argues  superior  Taste  as  well  as  mor- 
als." "  To  do  what  is  right"  we  boys  would  say, 
"argues  superior  Taste  as  well  as  morals."  "A 
stronger  emphasis  on  right"  the  teacher  would  say; 
"  emphasize  Taste.  Now,  once  more  after  me."  So 
once  more  it  would  be,  "  To  do  what  is  right  argues 
superior  Taste  as  well  as  morals."  Scores  of  times 
we  rang  the  changes  upon  it,  our  boyish  noddles  as 
unconscious  of  any  meaning  in  what  became  familiar 
to  the  tongue  as  if  it  were  so  much  Cherokee,  until 
at  length  we  passed  from  beneath  the  frown  of  the 
teacher,  and  proceeded  diligently  to  forget  his  pre- 
cepts. Something,  however,  remained  buried  in  the 
brain,  and  years  after,  when  a  rough  shake  or  two 
from  the  world  had  sobered  the  writer  out  of  his 
youth,  a  little  of  the  old  teacher's  instruction  came 
to  the  surface,  and  the  man  saw  a  meaning  in  what 
to  the  child  was  a  blank. 

"  To  do  what  is  right  argues  superior  Taste  as  well 
as  morals."  It  is  a  good  sentence  for  elocutionary 
practice,  and  a  far  better  sentence  for  something  else, 
for  there  is  a  fine  thought  contained  in  it  which  will 
bear  development. 

Let  us  suppose  spring  to  be  at  hand.  The  farmer 
is  glad  that,  looking  up  into  the  tree-tops,  he  can  see 
the  vibrating  head  of  the  woodpecker  beating  his 


SCHILLER.  463 

reveille  over  nature  about  to  awake,  and  the  throb- 
bing throat  of  the  harbinger  robin.  As  the  season 
advances,  the  influences  become  so  benignant  and 
potent  that  even  the  sad  and  the  anxious  cannot 
resist  them.  No  heart  so  wrapped  in  gloom  that  it 
cannot  feel  some  gladness  in  the  sunshine  of  mid- 
May.  No  spirit  so  soured  that  it  will  not  be  turned 
to  a  more  amiable  mood  in  going  through  a  meadow 
peopled  with  the  busy  bobolinks.  We  go  out  into 
the  woods  and  sit  upon  the  grass  among  the  old 
stones  and  trunks, — the  forest  veterans  that  are  dec- 
orated all  over  with  gray  and  yellow  medals  of  lichen. 
We  count  the  five  white  petals  of  the  strawberry 
blossom.  We  study  the  stamens,  shaped  like  little 
spades,  and  dusted  with  yellow,  for  something  has 
used  them  for  shovelling  gold.  We  take  dripping 
cresses  from  the  brook-bed,  and  delight  in  the  spring 
savor.  We  pore  over  the  petals  of  apple-blooms, 
white  and  rosy-veined.  We  watch  the  clumps  of 
dogwood  lifting  their  snow-drifts  into  the  air.  There 
is  no  grief  so  deep  that  is  not  made  to  forget  itself 
in  some  degree  by  these  influences,  no  mind  so  ab- 
sorbed that  it  is  not  called  away  from  its  brooding 
by  these  thousand  delightful  voices.  The  human 
heart  grows  soft  with  happiness,  as  the  meadows 
grow  soft  with  grass  ! 

The  quality  in  all  these  scenes  and  sounds  of 
spring  which  has  power  to  give  us  so  much  delight 
is,  of  course,  beauty  ;  and  the  faculty  within  us  by 
means  of  which  nature  has  made  us  capable  of 
taking  enjoyment  in  beauty  is  Taste.  To  be  sure,  it 
is  the  case  that  creatures  that  have  none  of  this  per- 


464  GERMAN    LITERATURE. 

ception  for  beauty,  or  Taste,  yet  enjoy  the  spring. 
We  may  be  sure  that  the  brute  creation  enjoys  it, 
though  it  must  be  in  a  dull  and  incomplete  way, — 
merely  as  the  season  that  brings  warmth  and  more 
abundant  provender.  The  lowest  order  of  human 
beings  finds  enjoyment  in  it  for  a  similar  reason.  It 
brings  a  more  genial  sky  ;  it  cheers  with  the  promise 
of  fruits  and  harvests  to  come.  Its  scents  and  sa- 
vors and  tones  give  a  degree  of  sensual  pleasure. 
Yet  the  spring  can  hardly  be  said  to  bring  real  de- 
light except  to  those  who  can  reach  this  glorious 
quality  of  beauty  with  which  it  is  so  pervaded ;  in 
other  words,  those  who  have  high  Taste, — and  the 
more  developed  and  refined  this  faculty  is  in  any  one, 
the  deeper  the  ecstacy  which  thrills  him  before  the 
beauty.  *,, . 

Thinking  of  this  beauty,  which  can  cause  us  such 
delight,  it  is  natural  to  ask  whether  beauty  may  not 
have  some  further  use  besides  this  of  ministering  to 
our  mere  pleasure.  Mere  delight,  no  matter  how 
refined  it  may  be,  we  believe  is  not  an  object  after 
which  we  ought  to  strive  ;  or  at  least  we  believe 
that  there  is  something  grander  which  we  can  ob- 
tain, and  that  grander  thing  should  occupy  our  at- 
tention for  the  most  part.  That  grander  thing  is 
moral  nobleness.  The  best  thing  in  a  human  being 
we  believe  to  be  the  instinct  by  which  he  gets  hold 
of  right,  —  the  faculty  by  means  of  which  he  has 
the  power  of  distinguishing  between  good  and  bad, 
and  is  made  to  see  that  the  good  is  to  be  preferred. 
It  is  mainly  through  the  action  of  this  instinct  that 
a  man  must  be  bent  to  choose  the  right  in  prefer- 


SCHILLER,  465 

ence  to  the  wrong.  No  duty,  therefore,  presses  us 
so  urgently  as  the  duty  to  make  strong  and  acute 
this  instinct,  the  germ  of  which  at  least  we  all  have, 
and  whose  function  is  so  important.  But  is  there 
not  some  other  faculty  belonging  to  us,  less  im- 
portant indeed  than  this  instinct,  and  yet  which, 
like  this,  has  the  eifect  to  lead  us  to  the  right  in 
preference  to  the  wrong?  If  there  is  such  a  fac- 
ulty, certainly  it  is  worth  while  to  cultivate  it.  This 
grand  instinct — the  thing  that  makes  us  noble,  and 
which  must  guide  us  if  life  is  to  amount  to  any  thing 
good — needs  auxiliaries.  If  we  have  a  faculty  which 
can  help  it,  by  all  means  let  us  know  what  it  is,  that 
At  may  be  strengthened  and  put  to  the  best  use. 

This  beauty,  this  quality  with  which  the  outward 
world  is  so  charged,  this  same  beauty  belongs  also 
to  nobleness.  This  Taste,  this  faculty  in  ourselves 
through  which  we  get  hold  of  beauty,  when  strongly 
developed,  influences  us  powerfully  to  choose  noble- 
ness. "  To  do  what  is  right  argues  superior  Taste 
as  well  as  morals."  There  is  a  beauty  in  doing 
right,  and  as  Taste  is  the  faculty  to  which  beauty 
corresponds,  the  possession  of  Taste  must  lead  us  to 
a  preference  of  right  over  wrong. 

I  do  not  think  that  any  writer  has  recognized 
this  more  clearly  or  stated  it  more  distinctly  than 
Schiller.  Here  are  passages  from  his  "^Esthetic 
Prose:"  "Taste,  a  pure  and  lively  feeling  for 
beauty,  has  the  most  salutary  influence  upon  the 
moral  life.  In  spirits  that  possess  aesthetic  refine- 
ment there  is  another  court  which  not  seldom  com- 
pensates for  virtue  where  that  is  deficient,  and 


466  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

assists  it  where  it  exists.  This  court  is  Taste. 
Taste  demands  moderation  and  decency,  —  makes  a 
well-recognized  demand  of  every  civilized  man  that 
he  should  listen  to  the  voice  of  reason,  even  in  the 
storm  of  emotion,  and  set  bounds  to  the  rude  out- 
breaks of  nature.  All  those  material  inclinations 
and  rude  desires  which  so  often  oppose  themselves 
rudely  and  stormfully  to  the  practice  of  goodness 
have  been  outlawed  from  the  mind  by  Taste,  and  in 
their  stead  nobler  and  milder  inclinations  engrafted, 
which  relate  to  order,  harmony,  and  perfection  ;  and 
although  these  are  no  virtues,  yet  they  share  one  ob- 
ject with  virtue.  If  now  desire  speaks,  it  must  en- 
dure a  severe  scrutiny  from  the  sense  of  beauty  ;  and 
if  now  the  reason  speaks  and  enjoins  actions  of  order, 
harmony,  and  perfection,  it  finds  not  only  no  oppo- 
sition from  Taste,  but  rather  the  liveliest  concur- 
rence. Taste  gives  the  mind  a  tendency  appropri- 
ate for  virtue,  as  it  removes  all  those  inclinations 
which  hinder  the  latter,  and  excites  those  which  are 
favorable.  Taste  serves  as  a  surrogate  for  true 
virtue.  Although  a  higher  rank  in  the  order  of 
spirits  would  undoubtedly  invest  him  who  needed 
not  the  allurements  of  beauty  to  act  in  every  crisis 
conformably  to  the  reason,  still  the  well-known  lim- 
its of  humanity  compel  the  most  rigid  moralist  to 
remit,  in  the  application  of  his  system,  somewhat 
of  its  severity,  and  make  more  secure  the  welfare 
of  the  human  race  by  the  additional  strong  anchor 
of  Taste." 

The  poet  is  a  human  being  who  has  high  Taste. 
By  means  of  this  he  selects  beautiful  things  in  the 


SCHILLER.  467 

world  and  in  his  reveries,  and  expresses  them  in  be- 
coming language.  Now,  whenever  a  true  poet 
touches  upon  human  affairs,  what  are  the  things  that 
human  beings  do  which  he  chooses  for  his  themes? 
Brave  and  chaste  and  grateful  actions  for  his  he- 
roes ;  tender,  true,  and  compassionate  actions  for  his 
heroines.  There  is  a  beauty  in  nobleness,  and  the 
poet  whose  work  it  is  to  recognize  beauty  and  express 
it  chooses  forms  of  nobleness.  They  please  his  own 
high  Taste.  He  knows  they  will  please  the  Taste 
of  those  for  whom  he  writes,  all  the  more  in  propor- 
tion to  the  refinement  and  development  of  the  Taste. 
Hence  there  has  been  given  to  the  world  the  gentle 
fortitude  of  Evangeline,  the  devoted  innocence  of 
Enid,  the  truth  of  Cordelia.  In  these  heroines  of  poe- 
try there  is  some  form  of  nobleness.  There  is 
beauty  in  nobleness,  and  therefore  the  Taste  of  the 
poet  selects  them.  It  is  not  because  the  moral 
sense  at  the  same  time  approves.  That  is  but  a  pro- 
saic faculty,  by  which  the  poet,  soaring  in  his  thor- 
ough fealty  to  beauty,  would  not  deign  to  confess 
himself  bound,  and  yet  through  his  Taste  he  is 
brought  to  choose  for  his  charmful  picture  the  very 
thing  which  the  moral  nature  at  the  same  time  would 
select.  The  artist  is  a  poet  whose  material  is  not 
language,  but  stone  or  color.  His  calling  too  is 
founded  upon  the  sense  of  beauty  in  man.  To  that 
he  also  makes  appeal.  By  virtue  of  his  Taste 
he  possesses  the  power  of  selecting  beauty,  and 
mark  how,  in  his  choice,  —  if  his  work  have  to  do 
with  human  things,  —  whenever  he  desires  to  give 
profound  delight,  he  makes  some  representation  of 


468  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

nobleness.  He  takes  consecrated  courage  and  repre- 
sents it  in  some  martyr ;  or  aspiration,  and  puts  it 
into  the  countenance  of  the  Madonna  ;  or  contrition, 
and  paints  the  tears  of  a  Magdalene  ;  or  heavenly 
purity,  and  delineates  some  adoring  angel !  It  is 
not  because  the  moral  nature  approves  these  things. 
That  is  not  the  artistic  faculty,  and  the  painter  or 
sculptor  will  not  confess  that  he  is  bound  by  it.  It 
is  because  these  things  delight  the  highest  Taste. 
Searching  for  the  most  exquisite  beauty,  there  is 
none  found  so  fine  and  enthralling  as  the  beauty  of 
nobleness,  and  thus  he  is  led  into  choice  of  the 
right  almost  as  directly  as  the  purest  saint,  owning 
only  the  sway  of  the  high  instinct  for  good. 

It  is  right,  then,  to  claim  that  the  quality  of 
beauty  in  the  world  has  power  to  do  something 
more  for  man  than  cause  him  mere  delight.  Beauty 
belongs  to  nobleness,  and,  acting  upon  the  faculty 
of  Taste,  has  power  to  allure  us  to  good.  But  we 
must  not  press  this  claim  too  far ;  it  must  not  be 
forgotten  that  Taste  is  to  be  held  as  a  mere  auxiliary 
power.  Says  Schiller  again:  "One  suspects,  with 
justice,  a  morality  which  is  founded  only  upon  the 
feeling  of  beauty,  and  has  no  other  guarantee  than 
Taste.  Taste  can  favor  moral  conduct,  but  its 
influence  can  never  create  that  which  is  moral." 
The  moral  sense  is  our  noblest  faculty,  and  through 
that  it  must  be  mainly  that  we  must  be  led  to 
choose  the  right  and  avoid  the  wrong.  If  the  moral 
sense  is  feeble,  it  is  only  a  very  little  way  that  the 
Taste  within  a  man  will  go  toward  making  good  the 
lack,  no  matter  how  refined  and  well-developed  it 


SCHILLER.  469 

may  be.  It  is  not  by  any  means  the  case  that  the 
most  tasteful  people  are  always  the  best.  Among 
such  people  indeed  the  coarse  vices  have  little  or 
no  popularity,  but  there  are  refined  forms  of  evil  — 
forms  less  shocking,  yet  none  the  less  devilish  —  to 
which  they  may  be  deeply  committed.  A  Taste  for 
the  beautiful,  although  it  must  certainly  lead  its 
possessor  to  admire  nobleness  with  all  its  beauty, 
wherever  he  may  see  it,  is  yet  seldom  a  power 
strong  enough  of  itself  to  bring  its  possessor  to  the 
practice  of  nobleness  in  his  own  conduct.  It  is  by 
no  means  the  case  that  the  poetic  or  artistic  nature 
is  always  coupled  with  a  noble  life.  Minds  that  con- 
ceive imaginings  most  lovely  in  their  purity  some- 
times belong  to  persons  whose  hands  are  unclean 
with  guilt.  Mere  Taste,  however  high  and  pure, 
can  do  little  unless  it  be  reinforced  by  an  active 
spiritual  principle.  Upon  that  the  main  reliance 
must  ever  be  placed  for  bringing  man  into  his  true 
path,  and  keeping  him  there.  It  is  only  as  a  help 
to  the  moral  sense  that  we  can  maintain  that  the 
Taste  for  tHe  beautiful  has  value  in  bringing  men  to 
nobleness.  But  putting  it  here  in  its  proper  place, 
who  will  say  that  it  has  no  use?  God  implanted 
it  in  man  that  it  might  be  to  him  a  source  of  de- 
light. That  in  part;  and,  besides  that,  we  may 
believe  that  by  Providential  appointment  it  has  a 
still  grander  utility.  Beauty  is  poured  liberally 
forth  within  the  universe,  but  its  choicest  form  is 
bestowed  upon  nobleness.  Standing  at  the  side  of 
the  grandest  thing  in  a  man's  heart  is  placed  this 
high  Taste,  that  taking  hold  of  the  serenest  and 


470  GERMAN    LITERATURE 

sublimest  beauty  it  may  help  in  raising  us  up  to- 
ward good. 

In  educating  a  human  being,  the  important,  fun- 
damental things  are  held  to  be,  enough  knowledge 
and  enough  training  of  the  mind  to  enable  him  to 
make  his  way  in  the  world,  and  such  a  development 
of  the  spiritual  nature  as  will  keep  him  free  from  sin. 
Besides  these,  there  are  what  are  held  to  be  the  re- 
finements of  education,  whose  design  is  to  make 
delicate  and  develop  the  Taste  for  the  beautiful. 
No  doubt  there  is  a  fault  of  estimating  these  at  too 
high  a  rate  and  giving  them  undue  attention,  but 
there  is  another  fault  to  the  full  as  prevalent,  —  the 
fault  of  holding  them  too  low.  The  faculty  of 
Taste  having  the  value  that  has  been  claimed  for 
it, — not  only  as  giving  delight,  but  as  influencing  us 
to  choose  the  pure,  because  it  is  beautiful,  in  prefer- 
ence to  the  impure,  —  it  follows  that  all  things  that 
can  make  strong  and  delicate  this  high  Taste  deserve 
even  a  religious  attention.  Let  Music  and  Art  and 
Poetry  bring  their  choicest  things  to  the  mind  of 
the  growing  man.  The  quality  which  comes  from  a 
solitary  bird-note,  or  chanting  choir  and  organ- 
thunder, — which  comes  through  the  gates  of  the  eyes 
to  his  soul  from  a  leafy  and  blossoming  landscape, 
or  which  enters  the  mind  from  the  lesson  or  the 
metaphor  of  some  true  poet, — that  same  quality  per- 
tains likewise  to  truth  and  justice  and  gentleness. 
Foster  the  love  for  it  as  it  manifests  itself  in  music 
and  nature  and  poems,  and  love  grows  for  it  in  its 
every  form  ;  until  all  that  moral  grandeur  with  which 
God  would  have  his  human  child  crown  the  immor- 


SCHILLER.  471 

tal  soul  wins  our  homage,  not  alone  because  it  is 
the  right,  but  because  it  is  the  beautiful. 

Thus  let  us  conclude  our  development  of  the 
thought  of  Schiller.  Let  the  love  for  beauty  grow 
under  every  stimulus  which  it  is  in  our  power  to 
apply.  It  is  the  glory  of  the  world,  it  is  the  crown 
of  the  angels,  it  is  the  radiance  of  Paradise.  The 
instinct  in  us  which  makes  us  thrill  at  any  spectacle 
of  beauty,  —  this  same  instinct,  refined,  fastening 
itself  upon  the  "Beauty  of  Holiness,"  lifts  us 
towards  Heaven ! 

I  call  to  mind  the  shadowed,  quiet  streets  of 
Weimar.  In  one  of  them  stands  the  modest  house 
where  Schiller  lived  and  wrought  when  he  was  at  his 
best,  —  a  centre  building  running  up  into  a  sharp 
gable,  with  lower  wings  on  each  side.  There,  as  he 
dreamed  beneath  that  humble  roof,  passed  before  his 
spirit  the  brooding,  stupendous  Wallenstein  ;  and 
Max  and  Thekla,  now  aglow  with  the  purest  love, 
now  crazed  by  the  darkest  despair.  Again  it  was  a 
vision  of  chivalric  pomp  which  he  saw,  and  in  the 
midst  of  them  a  purity  and  faith  superhuman,  the 
voices  of  celestial  visitors,  then  the  roar  of  flames 
about  the  form  of  the  fairest  of  martyrs,  —  which  he 
bodied  forth  in  the  "  Maid  of  Orleans."  With  his 
spiritual  sense  he  heard  Mary  of  Scotland  plead  with 
her  rival  for  her  liberty  ;  then,  while  the  splendor  of 
a  queen  glowed  about  her,  heard  the  dull  stroke  of 
the  headsman's  axe.  Anon  sounded  through  his 
soul  the  sweet  choruses  of  the  "  Bride  of  Messina," 
and  2ven  while  he  sat  oppressed  by  the  overshadow- 


472  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

ing  death,  he  built,  in  imagination,  the  towering 
Alpine  landscape,  —  crag,  lake,  waterfall,  unperish- 
ing  snow  crowning  solemn  pine-forests,  and  among 
them  a  manful  race,  shouting  songs  of  freedom. 
Only  a  little  way  off  is  the  house  of  Gothe,  larger, 
but  still  plain,  fronting  the  quiet  square.  We  can 
think  of  that  so  memorable  friendship  as  they  walked 
side  by  side,  the  one  full  of  power  and  beauty, 
with  eye  and  brow  so  radiant  with  genius,  in  form  a 
Greek  god ;  the  other  already  marked  with  dis- 
ease,— the  chest  hollow,  the  cheek  hectic, — but  with 
countenance  stamped  not  less  than  the  other  with 
the  divine  gift.  Or  if  we  have  difficulty  in  making 
them  real  to  us,  there,  on  the  spot  that  knew  them, 
they  stand  in  imperishable  bronze,  —  the  same  garb, 
the  characteristic  attitude,  the  eyes  uplifted  as  if 
they  saw  in  the  clouds  spiritual  worlds  aglow  with 
beauty. 

From  the  memorial,  where  they  stand  together 
upon  one  pedestal,  let  us  go  to  their  sepulchre.  It 
is  the  crypt  of  the  mausoleum  of  the  grand  dukes. 
As  you  descend  into  the  proud  tomb,  at  the  foot  of 
the  staircase  lie  side  by  side,  in  coffins  of  oak,  the 
poets  who  in  life  were  friends.  It  is  the  proudest 
distinction  of  the  ducal  house  of  Weimar  that  it 
protected  them  in  life ;  now  in  death,  not  divided 
from  one  another,  their  ashes  rest  in  the  same  tomb 
with  those  of  their  patrons.  On  the  lids  of  both 
coffins,  the  day  of  my  visit,  were  wreaths  of  fresh 
flowers  ;  on  that  of  Gothe  the  wreaths  were  few,  on 
that  of  Schiller  the  flowers  were  piled  high.  It  was 
sixty-five  years  since  that  midnight  of  tempest  when 


SCHILLER.  473 

Schiller  was  laid  to  rest ;  the  coffin-lid  had  bloomed 
perpetually,  and  now  the  fragrance  and  verdure  are 
forever  renewed.  What  is  the  mysterious  spring- 
tide which,  even  there,  in  the  abyss  of  the  sepulchre, 
perennially  calls  such  beauty  and  freshness  into  be- 
ing ?  It  is  the  love  of  the  German  heart  :  it  clings 
to  him  because  it  feels  its  kinship  with  him  ;  it  recog- 
nizes him  as  preeminently  its  type  and  spokesman, 
representing  its  ideals,  its  loves,  its  longings.  If 
Gothe  was  the  greater  artist,  he  had  not  the  popular 
heart.  About  the  memory  of  Schiller  has  the  love 
of  the  Germans  folded  itself  as  about  no  other.  He 
lived  in  desperate  times,  when  his  land  was  in  de- 
spair. His  aspirations  after  freedom  received  a  check 
in  the  French  Revolution,  whose  beginnings  he  had 
hailed  with  enthusiastic  hope.  Shrinking  in  terror 
from  its  excesses,  he  grew  cautious,  but  did  not  lose 
his  republican  spirit.  In  a  certain  way  he  has  been 
not  only  the  teacher  of  his  race,  but  its  savior.  Said 
the  speaker  at  the  centenary  of  Schiller's  birthday, 
in  1859  :  "He  was  a  seer,  a  prophet.  A  century 
has  passed  since  his  birth,  and  we  revere  him  as  one 
of  the  first  among  the  spiritual  heroes  of  humanity. 
A  hundred  years  may  roll  away,  another  and  yet 
another,  still  from  century  to  century  his  name  shall 
be  celebrated,  and  at  last  there  shall  come  a  festival 
when  men  will  say,  <  See  !  there  was  a  truth  in  his 
ideal  anticipations  of  freedom  and  civilization.'  "  l 


i  Fr^drichVischer,  quoted  by  Gostwick  and  Harrison. 


CHAPTER    XV. 

THE   ROMANTIC   SCHOOL. 

Now  that  we  have  passed  Gothe  and  Schiller,  it  be- 
comes somewhat  difficult  to  decide  what  line  to  fol- 
low in  the  history  that  remains.  When  the  two 
great  poets  appear  upon  the  scene,  the  glorious 
period  of  German  literature,  which  in  them  reached 
its  greatest  brilliancy,  was  in  its  morning.  Schiller 
died  in  1805,  Gothe  in  1832.  Before  the  iirst  of 
these  dates  was  reached  the  German  nation  had  ex- 
hibited an  immense  expansion  and  increase  of  in- 
tensity in  its  intellectual  life,  which  is  yet  to  be  per- 
ceived. Departments  of  intellectual  activity  in 
which  the  Germans  had  hitherto  done  little  or  no 
more  than  other  races  became  filled  with  workers 
of  genius,  through  whom  the  glory  of  their  land 
reached  the  highest  pitch  ;  so  that  other  civilized  na- 
tions have  been  forced  to  acknowledge  them  in  this 
age,  in  many  ways,  the  leaders  of  the  world.  With 
Kant  begins  the  series  of  philosophers,  peers  in  pro- 
found power  of  the  greatest  names  of  the  earth.  To 
this  period  belong  the  tireless  scholars  who  have 
plunged  to  such  depths  of  erudition,  the  range  of 
whose  vision  is  so  immense,  yet  who  sweep  the  field 
with  glance  so  minute.  To  this  period  belongs  the 
army  of  scientific  investigators,  —  the  Humboldts 


THE   ROMANTIC  SCHOOL.  475 

wandering  the  world  over,  making  known  the  phe- 
nomena of  earth,  sea,  sky,  in  remote  corners,  in  cav- 
erns, upon  mountain-peaks  ;  the  bright  minds  who 
in  garden  and  laboratory,  in  mine  and  observatory, 
with  microscope,  telescope,  spectroscope,  with  com- 
pass and  line,  have  weighed,  fathomed,  measured  the 
universe  of  matter.  With  all  this  intellectual  life 
literature  is  concerned.  If  the  term  is  understood 
comprehensively,  the  record  of  all  this  scholarship, 
of  this  accomplishment,  physical  and  metaphysical, 
must  find  a  place.  It  must  be  remembered  however 
that  it  is  simply  at  what  the  Germans  call  "Die 
Schone  Literatur  "  (belles-lettres,  polite  literature) 
that  we  have  time  to  glance.  Vague  enough  are  the 
boundaries  of  the  field,  shading  off  everywhere  by 
imperceptible  degrees  into  the  other  fields  that  have 
been  indicated.  Preserving  the  limits  as  well  as  we 
can,  we  must  push  forward. 

The  important  writers,  the  consideration  of  whom 
is  now  finished,  —  Lessing,  Klopstoek,  Wieland, 
Herder,  Gothe,  Schiller,  —  have  been  called  the  six 
heroes  of  modern  German  poetry.1  Each  became 
the  centre  of  a  group  of  followers  and  imitators ; 
each  of  these  groups  is  numerous,,  and  contains 
names  with  which  the  thorough  student  must  make 
himself  familiar.  It  would  be  a  departure  from  the 
plan  of  this  book,  however,  to  consider  them  all 
here.  We  are  restricted  to  the  study  of  the  polite 
literature,  and  even  in  that  department  we  must 
limit  ourselves.  Like  Switzerland  in  some  past 

1  Vilmar. 


476  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

geologic  age,  the  field  of  German  letters  underwent, 
at  the  end  of  the  eighteenth  and  beginning  of  the 
nineteenth  centuries,  a  great  upheaval.  The  whole 
area  was  lifted,  and  here  and  there  shot  forth  peaks 
toward  the  sky.  Like  the  dome  of  Mont  Blanc, 
Gothe  towers  over  all,  but  there  are  other  heights 
of  scarcely  inferior  altitude.  As  each  main  Alpine 
summit  has  its  subsidiary  system  of  elevations,  rang- 
ing from  snow-capped  mountains  to  hillocks  that 
just  swell  above  the  plain,  so  .each  great  author 
stands  as  the  centre  of  a  group  of  literary  person- 
ages, sometimes  of  great,  sometimes  of  small  sig- 
nificance. To  try  to  enumerate  these  even  would 
soon  produce  bewilderment.  The  effort  of  this 
book  is  to  give  the  main  configuration  of  the  literary 
landscape;  to  show  it  in  proper  perspective,  —  the 
great  peaks  illuminated,  the  less  important  sum- 
mits in  a  shadow  that  deepens  as  they  grow  lower. 
As  in  the  Alpine  world  from  Mont  Blanc  and 
Monte  Rosa  run  off  the  highest  among  the  subordi- 
nate ridges,  so  from  Gothe  and  Schiller  proceeds  a 
development  more  noteworthy  than  from  the  other 
minds  that  have  been  mentioned.  This  is  called 
"Romanticism,"  and  is  so  important  that  it  must 
receive  attention  from  us. 

The  magnificent  activity  of  Gothe  and  Schiller 
at  Weimar  aroused  enthusiasm  in  the  breasts  of 
many  young  men  of  genius.  Jena,  which  was  close 
at  hand,  where  Schiller  had  been  a  professor,  and 
with  whose  management  Gothe  was  much  con- 
cerned, became  the  centre  of  extraordinary  literary 
life.  This  was  called  forth  by  the  example  of  the 


THE   ROMANTIC  SCHOOL.  477 

two  poets,  the  young  writers  who  now  came  for- 
ward treating  them  with  great  reverence.  They  were 
the  spiritual  children  of  the  illustrious  men,  but 
soon  departed  from  the  precedents  that  had  been 
set.  For  Gothe's  classic  preferences  they  substi- 
tuted something  different,  and  did  not  hesitate  to  crit- 
icise Schiller.  But  another  influence  must  be  men- 
tioned which  was  important  in  evoking  Romanticism. 
Though  the  vast  subject  of  German  speculative  phi- 
losophy is  beyond  my  scheme,  it  becomes  necessary 
to  make  some  mention  of  it,  on  account  of  certain 
important  influences  which  it  has  exercised  upon 
polite  literature.  Let  us  go  back  for  a  moment  to 
Locke,  whose  teaching,  so  far  as  it  can  be  given  in 
a  word,  was  that  the  mind  has  no  ideas  except  those 
which  it  gains,  through  sensation  and  reflection, 
from  the  world  outside  of  it.  Only  through  the 
senses  do  we  know  of  this  outside  world ;  what  we 
thus  learn  we  may  modify  by  thinking  upon  it ; 
there  is  no  other  source  of  knowledge.  In  opposi- 
tion to  this  philosophy,  which  had  great  acceptance 
on  the  Continent  as  well  as  in  England,  Immanuel 
Kant,  the  son  of  a  poor  saddler,  a  professor  at 
Konigsberg,  half  a  century  later  proclaimed  his 
system.  Without  denying  that  some  ideas  were  ob- 
tained from  the  outside  world,  through  sensation 
and  subsequent  reflection  upon  it,  he  asserted  that 
there  were  other,  ideas,  with  the  existence  of  which 
experience  had  nothing  to  do, — which  belonged  to 
the  soul  itself,  or  were  intuitively  perceived  by  it. 
Even  while  he,  the  overturner  of  preceding  systems, 
was  living,  new  systems  were  founded  upon  his 


478  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

creation.  Johann  Gottlieb  Fichte  worked  all  his 
life  to  make  his  generation  better ;  striving  like  a 
hero  even  while  the  French  drums  sounded  into  his 
lecture-room  ;  firing  his  students  with  eloquent  words 
to  take  up  arms  for  the  fatherland,  finally  entering 
the  ranks  himself.  Yet,  as  a  philosopher,  he  taught 
that  sensation  as  a  source  of  knowledge  must  be 
thrown  away  entirely,  declaring  that  we  cauuot  be 
certain  there  is  any  outside  world.  In  Fichte' s 
idea  the  "  ego,"  the  «« I "  by  which  he  understands 
the  thinking  soul,  is  the  only  thing  of  whose  existence 
we  can  be  sure.  All  existence  outside  the  thinking 
soul, — the  "non-ego,"  that  which  is  not  I, — is 
phantasmal ;  it  has  no  existence  except  in  the  thing 
perceiving.  In  other  words,  his  philosophy  is  purely 
idealistic.  So,  with  some  modification,  taught  Bishop 
Berkeley;  so  substantially  believes  the  cultivated 
Brahmin  in  the  East,  who  regards  the  world  outside 
of  himself  as  maya,  —  illusion,  — no  more  real  than 
the  figures  and  landscape  of  a  dream.  Following  on 
in  the  series,  after  Fichte  comes  Sc-helling,  who  taught 
that  the  "  non-ego,"  the  outside  world,  was  in  no 
way  identical  with  the  percipient,  the  "ego,"  but 
existed  alongside  of  it ;  that  the  oppositi  >:i  in  which 
they  stood  to  each  other  was  united  and  reconciled 
in  the  higher  absolute, — in  God.  It  is  but  the 
merest  adumbration  of  colossal  intellect  ml  struc- 
tures ;  it  is  all  for  which  there  is  space,  and  all,  I  be- 
lieve, that  my  scheme  will  demand.  Kant  at 
Konigsberg,  Fichte  at  Jena  and  Berlin,  Schelling,  — 
who  through  fifty  years  was  a  famous  teacher,  first 
at  Jena,  then  at  several  other  universities,  —  all  had 


THE   ROMANTIC  SCHOOL.  479 

multitudes  of  enthusiastic  disciples,  influencing 
largely  the  thought  of  their  time ;  these,  as  well 
as  Hegel,  Herbart,  and  Schopenhauer.  The  writers 
known  as  the  "Romantic  School"  were  followers 
of  Fichte,  and  afterward  of  Schelling. 

Recalling  to  your  minds  the  division  made  of 
poetry,  in  a  previous  chapter,  into  objective  and  sub- 
jective, it  will  be  remembered  that  Schiller  may  be 
taken  as  a  type  of  the  subjective  class  ;  his  tendency 
was  to  proceed  from  the  idea  within  himself  to  the 
outward  world,  to  hold  the  idea  as  most  important ; 
and  far  from  contenting  himself,  as  objective  poets 
do,  with  the  faithful  representation  of  the  world  and 
life,  to  use  the  world  and  life  only  as  a  source  of 
illustration,  a  means  for  making  plain  the  idea. 
Schiller  read  Kant  with  delight ;  and  it  is  plain  to 
see  that  the  influence  of  Kant,  claiming  as  he  did 
rights  for  the  spirit  which  philosophers  before  him 
had  denied,  was  to  fortify  Schiller  in  his  tendency. 
As  we  have  seen,  the  characters  in  many  of  Schiller's 
plays  were,  as  he  called  them  himself,  monstros- 
ities ;  at  any  rate  untrue  to  nature,  as  his  scenes 
and  situations  were  untrue  to  life,  though  in  his  later 
time  he  contrived  to  unite  with  his  subjective  method 
a  more  artistic  representation  of  the  world.  As 
Fichte  went  a  step  beyond  Kant,  claiming  for  the 
spirit  the  "  ego,"  the  I,  —  everything, — and  anni- 
hilating the  outside  world,  the  "non-ego,"  so  the 
"  Romantic  "  writers  who  followed  him  went  a  step 
beyond  Schiller,  carrying  the  subjective  tendency  to 
excess,  while  the  objective  presentment  was  treated 
with  the  greatest  carelessness.  If  Schiller  created 


480  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

monstrosities,  the  Romantic  writers  sank  into  utter 
distortion  and  formlessness,  often  using  mere  in- 
comprehensible mist-pictures.  There  are  writers 
among  them  who  show  how  the  subjective  tendency, 
uncontrolled,  leads  to  the  destruction  of  all  art. 
Accepting  a  philosophy  which  taught  that  the  out- 
side world  was  phantasm,  a  mere  imagination  of  the 
spirit,  why  should  they  respect  it  so  far  as  to  study 
it,  or  attempt  to  represent  it  with  truth  ?  Entirely 
in  the  sense  of  Fichte's  system,  they  declared 
the  ideal  to  be  the  uppermost  principle  in  poetry, 
and  demanded  for  it  unconditional  freedom.  The 
form,  as  the  mere  outflow  of  the  idea,  was  not  to  be 
determined  in  itself  because  dependent  on  the  idea. 
As  in  philosophy  the  speculative  reason,  so  in  poetry 
is  the  fancy  the  principle  alone  creative,  and  the 
poet  must  therefore  abandon  himself  to  the  sug- 
gestions of  the  fancy. 

The  Romantic  writers  found  in  Schelling  the 
sentence,  "  Every  phenomenon  in  nature  is  the  in- 
corporation of  an  idea."  It  came  to  be  considered 
among  them  a  main  task  of  the  poet  to  recognize  in 
the  phenomena  of  nature  the  ideas  at  the  bottom 
of  them.  Poetry  therefore  became  allegorical,  since 
it  was  to  represent  material  phenomena  as  the  sym- 
bols of  ideas.  In  their  attempts  at  interpretation, 
they  became  lost  in  the  deepest  abysses  of  a  dim 
mysticism. 

There  are  still  other  characteristics  of  Romanti- 
cism which  I  must  try  to  make  plain.  The  social 
and  political  condition  of  Germany  at  the  end  of 
the  eighteenth  century  was  very  discouraging. 


THE   ROMANTIC  SCHOOL.  481 

Hope  in  the  nation  was  wellnigh  crushed  out.  As 
a  consequence  of  the  despair  which  prevailed,  people 
became  frivolous  ;  men  said,  We  will  laugh  through 
life  as  we  can  ;  it  is.  at  best  full  of  mortification  and 
outrage  for  us."  Hence  a  class  of  writers  became 
popular  of  whom  the  poet  Kotzebue  is  a  type, 
whose  standards  were  very  low,  humoring,  as  they 
did,  the  disposition  to  indolence  and  frivolity.  The 
guilt  belonged  to  the  leaders  of  the  people  rather 
than  to  the  people.  At  the  beginning  of  the  period 
Gothe  had  given  up  his  early,  popular  way  of  writ- 
ing, and  was  devoted  to  abstruse  art  and  science  ; 
Schiller  was  in  the  ten  years  between  his  first  and 
second  periods,  buried  in  metaphysics,  not  yet  re- 
turned to  his  true  path.  The  learned,  for  the  most 
part,  were  busy  building  systems  of  speculation, 
while  the  fatherland  daily  suffered  more  and  more. 
The  people  seeing  no  means  or  prospect  of  im- 
provement, in  their  discouragement  were  disposed 
to  make  of  literature  a  mere  pastime,  until  in  most 
minds  the  better  taste  seemed  quite  dead.  They 
grasped  greedily  at  the  amusement  offered  them,  by 
which  they  could  forget  present  sorrows  and  be- 
come indifferent  to  country,  freedom,  and  glory. 

The  founders  of  Romanticism  were  of  a  nobler 
strain  than  to  take  part  with  the  frivolous  writers. 
The  ideal  philosophy  had  somewhat  estranged  them 
from  the  firm  ground  of  reality.  Dissatisfied  with 
the  present,  they  naturally  looked  to  the  past  for 
satisfaction,  and  became  seized  with  an  indiscrimi- 
nate delight  in  mediaeval  times.  In  those  times 
they  saw  only  what  was  beautiful  and  good.  A 


482  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

German  emperor  chosen  by  German  princes  was 
the  centre  of  the  political  world.  Germany  was 
at  the  head  of  Christendom ;  a  numerous  nobility, 
free,  independent,  full  of  knightly  prowess,  re- 
spectful to  woman,  helpful  to  the  oppressed,  was 
the  core  of  the  German  race,  and  spread  its  fame  to 
the  remotest  lands.  Religious  feeling  seemed  to  be 
the  foundation  of  all  life,  filling  men  with  wonder- 
ful devotion  and  humility.  The  world  was  united 
in  one  Church.  The  Romantic  writers,  inspired  by 
Schelling,  as  we  have  seen,  with  a  love  for  symbol- 
ism, gradually  embraced  the  idea  that  that  form  of 
religion  is  truest  which  is  richest  in  symbolical  pre- 
sentment,—  therefore  the  Catholic  faith.  It  was 
venerable  because  it  had  conquered  the  barbaric 
rudeness  of  the  old  German  stock.  It  had  been 
the  source  of  a  new  civilization  and  art,  and  was 
wonderful  with  temples  and  pictures.  They  saw 
only  one  side .  They  came  to  regard  the  Reformation 
as  the  beginning  and  source  of  misery  for  the  empire. 
So  it  was  that  the  Romanticists  became  reactionary  ; 
they  battled  with  the  present  and  its  requirements, 
opposed  faith  to  free  investigation,  Catholicism  to 
Protestantism,  the  rule  of  the  nobility  to  government 
by  the  people,  mediaeval  art  to  modern. 

With  all  their  errors,  the  Romanticists  accom- 
plished much  good.  At  the  time  of  the  rise  of  the 
school,  the  "Xenien"  of  Gothe  and  Schiller  ap- 
peared. With  the  efforts  of  these  poets  to  break  the 
influence  of  the  frivolous  writers  the  Romanticists 
cooperated.  The  world  found  something  attractive 
in  their  mystic  manner ;  the  reference  to  mediaeval 


THE   ROMANTIC  SCHOOL.  483 

glories  to  the  people  was  very  kindling ;  in  the 
youth  sprang  up  a  longing  for  a  new  birth  of  the 
fatherland,  the  enthusiasm  over  the  brilliant  past 
awaking  the  desire  to  produce  a  similar  future. 
Then  came  admonitions  to  strive  after  it.  The  upris- 
ing against  the  yoke  of  Napoleon,  in  1813,  was 
largely  due  to  poets  of  the  Eomantic  scliool.  The 
mystical  ground  was  forsaken  for  reality  in  the 
battle-songs  of  Korner  and  Arndt ;  it  was  not  until 
the  last  years  of  Gothe's  life  that  the  tendency 
finally  died  away. 

This  sketch  of  Romanticism1  must  seem  somewhat 
undefined,  but  I  cannot  do  better  with  it.  Here  once 
more  are  the  main  points.  The  intense  idealism  of 
Fichte,  influencing  powerfully  young  men  of  genius, 
at  the  end  of  the  eighteenth  century  produced  a 
school  of  writers  whose  characteristic  was  excessive 
subjectivity.  Accepting  moreover  the  doctrine  of 
Schelling,  that  the  outer  world  is  only  the  reflec- 
tion in  symbols  of  the  world  of  spirit,  something 
in  itself  unreal,  they  depreciated  it,  and  fell  from  dis- 
tinctness of  presentment  into  cloudy  mysticism. 
Shocked  moreover  with  the  present,  they  turned  to 
the  past ;  shocked  with  French  freethinking,  they 
turned  to  the  Catholic  Church,  which  moreover  com- 
mended itself  as  a  faith  in  which  truth  was  revealed 
by  symbols.  Romanticism  had  of  course  no  ex- 
clusive possession  of  the  field.  Although  it  may  be 
said  to  have  started  from  Schiller,  Schiller  had  no 
part  with  most  of  it,  and  his  best  works  were  writ- 


1  Based  upon  Kurz. 


484  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

ten  while  it  was  gaining  power.  Gothe,  although 
so  reverenced  by  Romanticists,  always  held  aloof. 
Metaphysics  was  distasteful  to  him  ;  he  rejected  the 
mysticism  and  enthusiasm  for  the  Middle  Ages, 
which  contradicted  his  classic  preferences — the  pref- 
erences which  became  so  marked  in  him  after  the 
period  of  his  youth  was  past ;  he  moreover  lived  to 
see  the  tendency  expend  its  force.  Aside  from  these 
greatest  men,  the  swarm  of  writers, — Kotzebue 
and  his  troop,  —  who  have  been  designated  as  frivo- 
lous, appealed  to  the  people  and  enjoyed  immense 
popularity.  As  one  of  several  currents  then  Ro- 
manticism strove,  attaining  at  length  great  impor- 
tance. It  had  its  influence  upon  English  thought, 
Coleridge  beyond  all  —  the  rhapsodizing  sage,  in 
dreamy  essay  and  rapt  monologue,  turning  from  the 
extreme  of  freethinking,  not  quite  to  Catholicism, 
but  to  high  Anglicanism  —  being  its  representative. 
Very  noteworthy  too  in  America  has  been  its  fruit,  — 
nothing  else  than  the  Transcendental  movement, 
with  The  Dial  for  its  organ,  Emerson  for  its  poet, 
Margaret  Fuller  for  its  critic,  Alcott  for  its  prophet, 
and  O.  B.  Frothingham  for  its  historian.  In  the 
career  of  some  of  its  professors,  Orestes  A.  Brown- 
son  for  example,  we  may  see  the  reactionary  ten- 
dency fully  carried  out.  Unmistakably  the  seed 
was  blown  hitherward  from  the  vigorous  plant  that 
sprung  in  Germany  from  the  soil  of  Idealism  ;  al- 
though the  influences  of  the  new  hemisphere  modified 
the  development  of  the  germ,  the  substantial  identity 
of  the  plant  with  its  German  progenitor  is  very  plain. 
Turning  now  to  some  study  of  the  men  of  the 


THE    ROMANTIC  SCHOOL.  485 

Romantic  school,  we  find  as  their  precursor  the  im- 
portant figure  of  Jean  Paul  Bichter.  He  was  four 
years  younger  than  Schiller,  and  struggled  up 
through  the  deepest  poverty,  until  he  at  length  ob- 
tained recognition  as  one  of  the  most  gifted  men  of 
his  time.  After  an  enormous  accomplishment, — he 
is  said  to  have  written  more  than  sixty  volumes,  — 
he  died  at  Baireuth  in  1825.  The  mtmes  even  of  his 
books  cannot  be  mentioned  except  in  a  ponderous 
list.  The  romance  "Hesperus"  established  his 
fame  ;  in  "  Levana ' '  he  considered  education  ;  in 
the  "  Campaner  Thai,"  immortality.  Then  there 
are  "Titan,"  "Selections  from  the  Papers  of  the 
Devil;"  "Biographical  Recreations  Beneath  the 
Skull  of  a  Giantess,"  "Flower,  Fruit,  and  Thorn 
Pieces,"  and  so  on,  —  titles  sometimes  poetical, 
sometimes  most  grotesque,  sometimes  most  baldly 
commonplace,  —  the  list  giving  some  hint  of  the 
character  of  the  contents  and  the  author.  He  is  the 
strangest  possible  compound  of  humor,  pathetic 
tenderness,  fine  imagination.  I  do  not  find  him 
anywhere  more  vividly  characterized  than  in  this 
passage  from  Longfellow :  * '  When  you  read  his 
works  it  is  as  if  you  were  climbing  a  high  mountain, 
in  merry  company,  to  see  the  sunrise.  At  times  you 
are  enveloped  in  mist,  the  morning  wind  sweeps 
by  you  with  a  shout,  you  hear  the  far-off  mutter- 
ing thunder.  Wide  beneath  you  spreads  the  land- 
scape,—  field,  meadows,  town,  and  winding  river." 
*  *  *  <  i  You  revel  like  the  lark  in  the  sunshine 
and  bright  blue  heaven,  and  all  is  a  delicious  dream 
of  soul  and  sense,  when  suddenly  a  friend  at  your 


486  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

elbow  laughs  aloud,  and  offers  you  a  piece  of  Bologna 
sausage."  *  *  *  "  At  times  glad,  beautiful  im- 
ages, airy  forms,  move  by  you,  graceful,  harmonious  ; 
at  times  the  glaring,  wild-looking  fancies,  chained  to- 
gether by  hyphens,  brackets,  and  dashes,  brave  and 
base,  high  and  low,  all  in  their  motley  dresses,  go 
sweeping  down  the  dusty  page  like  the  galley-slaves 
that  sweep  the'  streets  of  Eome,  where  you  may 
chance  to  see  the  nobleman  and  the  peasant  man- 
acled together."  *  *  *  "And  the  figures  and  or- 
naments of  his  style,  —  wild,  fantastic,  and  at  times 
startling, — like  those  in  Gothic  cathedrals,  are  not 
merely  what  they  seem,  but  massive  coignes  and 
buttresses  which  support  the  fabric.  Remove  them 
and  the  roof  and  walls  Ml  in.  And  through  these 
gargoyles  —  these  wild  faces,  the  images  of  beasts 
and  men  carved  upon  spouts  and  gutters  —  flow  out, 
like  gathered  rain,  the  bright,  abundant  thoughts 
that  have  fallen  from  heaven."1  Here  is  Heinrich 
Heine's  characterization  :  ' '  Jean  Paul's  periods  con- 
sist of  little  rooms,  which  are  often  so  narrow  that 
if  one  idea  meets  another  there  they  bump  their 
heads  together ;  above  on  the  ceiling  are  hooks  on 
which  Jean  Paul  hangs  all  kinds  of  thoughts,  and 
in  the  walls  are  secret  drawers  in  which  he  conceals 
feelings.  No  German  author  is  so  rich  as  he  in 
thoughts  and  feelings,  but  he  never  lets  them  grow 
ripe,  and  with  the  wealth  of  his  mind  and  soul  he 
furnishes  us  more  astonishment  than  refreshment. 
Thoughts  and  feelings  which  would  grow  to  great 


Hyperion. 


THE   ROMANTIC  SCHOOL.  487 

trees  if  he  allowed  them  to  take  root  properly,  and 
expand  themselves  with  all  their  branches,  blossoms, 
and  leaves,  these  he  picks  off  when  they  are  nothing 
but  little  shrubs,  often  mere  buds,  and  whole  intel- 
lectual forests  are  in  this  way  set  before  us  on  a 
common  plate  as  vegetables.  This  is  strange  food, 
which  one  can  hardly  enjoy  ;  for  not  every  stomach 
can  bear,  in  such  a  mass,  young  oaks,  cedars,  palms, 
and  bananas.  Jean  Paul  is  a  great  poet  and  phi- 
losopher, but  it  is  impossible  to  be  more  inartistic 
than  he  in  creating  and  thinking.  In  his  romances 
he  has  brought  into  the  world  genuine  poetic  figures, 
but  they  all  drag  about  a  foolishly  long  umbilical 
cord,  entangling  and  strangling  themselves  with  it. 
He  often  disguised  himself  as  a  clumsy,  beggarly 
fellow;  then  suddenly,  like  the  princes  incognito 
whom  we  see -upon  the  stage,  he  throws  off  the 
rough  overcoat,  and  we  see  then  the  gleaming 
star."1  To  put  the  matter  in  less  glowing  terms, 
he  had  poetic  genius  of  the  first  order,  but  no  power 
of  combining  particulars  to  a  harmonious  whole. 
At  the  slightest  hint  his  fancy  is  led  to  new  series  of 
thoughts.  Like  a  cheerful,  lively  child  sent  out  on 
an  errand,  be  was  diverted  by  all  he  found  in  his 
way,  by  meadow  and  wood  ;  now  chasing  a  butterfly, 
now  picking  berries,  now  listening  to  the  birds,  for- 
getting his  special  work.  He  mistook  his  genius  in 
attempting  connected  works  ;  in  the  idyl  he  would 
have  been  a  master.  He  had  the  deepest  sympathy 
with  the  poor,  and  it  is  unfortunate  that  one  who  so 


Die  Eomantische  Schule. 


488  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

labored  to  comfort  the  wretched  did  not  write  so 
that  they  could  understand  him ;  even  for  Germans, 
there  is  a  special  dictionary  for  Jean. Paul.  Yet  he 
abounds  in  richness  of  wit,  splendor  of  expression, 
graphic  power,  beauty  of  rhythmic  movement.  As 
grotesque  and  as  noble  he  was  as  a  man.  "  I  see 
him,"  says  one  who  remembered  him  at  Baireuth, 
"  with  his  majestic,  mountainous  forehead,  his  mild 
blue  eyes,  and  finely-cut  nose  and  mouth  ;  his  mas- 
sive frame  clad  loosely  and  carelessly  in  an  old  green 
frock,  from  the  pockets  of  which  the  corners  of 
books  project,  perhaps  the  end  of  a  loaf  of  bread 
and  the  nose  of  a  bottle  ;  a  straw  hat  lined  with 
green  lying  near  him,  a  huge  walking-stick  in  his 
hand,  and  at  his  feet  a  white  poodle.  You  would 
sooner  have  taken  him  for  a  master-carpenter  than 
for  a  poet."  l  In  many  ways  we  have  his  counter- 
part in  English  literature  in  Carlyle,  who  is  without 
doubt  his  spiritual  child.  We  may  call  him  the  pre- 
cursor of  Romanticism,  but  must  not  identify  him 
with  it.  "  He  was,"  says  Brandes,  "  the  antipodes 
of  classic  culture,  though  it  cannot  be  said  he  had 
the  mediaeval  preferences.  He  was  as  a  poet  exces- 
sively subjective,  for  he  it  is  who  speaks  out  of  all 
his  personages,  whatever  they  may  be  called.  He 
treated  moreover  the  external  form  with  measureless 
indifference,  putting  to  shame  the  artistic  sense  in 
every  page  with  the  strangest  incoherencies.  In 
some  ways  however  he  turned  against  the  Romantic 
tendencies  as  hollow  and  demoralizing  fantasy.  He 


Hyperion. 


THE   ROMANTIC   SCHOOL.  489 

stood  for  the  Reformation  with  stout  Protestantism  ; 
he  was  convinced  too  of  the  worth  of  the  ideas  which 
lay  at  the  bottom  of  the  French  Revolution,  to  have 
produced  and  established  which  he  felt  to  be  the 
glory  of  the  eighteenth  century."  : 

Coming  now  to  writers  who  are  really  representa- 
tive of  Romanticism,  we  encounter  first  a  name  to 
English  ears  even  more  familiar  than  that  of  Jean 
Paul,  —  that  of  Schlegel.  Four  men  made  the 
name  illustrious  in  literature  in  the  last  and  the 
beginning  of  the  present  century.  It  is  with  the  sec- 
ond generation  that  we  have  to  do, — the  brothers  Au- 
gust Wilhejm  and  Friedrich  Schlegel.  August  Wil- 
helm,  the  elder,  is  best  known  to  English  readers, — 
a  man  of  vast  accomplishments  who  early  made 
himself  famous  through  writings  and  lectures  upon 
subjects  of  art  and  literature.  As  a  poet  he  resem- 
bled Herder,  understanding,  like  the  great  preacher 
of  Weimar,  how  to  appropriate  the  foreign  and  re- 
produce it  in  his  own  tongue.  Shakespeare,  Cal- 
deron,  Petrarch,  Dante  speak  through  him  as  no 
doubt  they  would  have  spoken  had  they  talked  Ger- 
man. His  jriginal  pieces  have  the  merit  only  of  a 
certain  exterior  grace.  As  a  critic  he  resembles 
Lessing,  though  he  must  be  put  far  below  the  mighty 
achiever  of  the  « '  Laokoon . "  "He  had  appropriated 
Lessing' s  great  battle-sword,  but  his  arm  was  much 
too  weak  to  strike  the  blows  of  the  champion." 


1  Hauptstromungen  der  Literatur  des  19ten  Jahrhunderts. 

2  Heine. 


490  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

His  main  work  however,  the  well-known  lectures 
upon  Dramatic  Literature,  has  great  excellencies. 

Without  stopping  to  trace  out  his  affiliations  with 
Romanticism,  let  us  pass  to  the  far  more  noteworthy 
younger  brother,  Friedrich  Schlegel,  the  abler  man, 
and  the  more  important  in  the  present  connection, 
because  from  him  largely  proceeded  the  ideas  on 
which  Romanticism  rested ;  he  moreover  carried 
them  out  fully,  showing  in  his  career  every  phase 
of  the  development,  and  is  to  be  regarded  as  the 
best  type  of  the  school.  While  a  youth  at  Got- 
tingen  and  Leipsig,  Friedrich  Schlegel  showed  great 
force  of  intellect.  At  this  time  he  came  under  the 
influence  first  of  Fichte,  then  of  Schelling.  He  mar- 
ried a  daughter  of  Mendelssohn  ;  at  length  at  Koln 
he  became  a  Catholic.  He  went  to  Vienna,  and  was 
received  with  distinction,  being  selected  to  accom- 
pany the  Archduke  Charles  in  the  campaigns  of 
Aspern  and  Wagram,  during  which  he  issued  procla- 
mations which  had  a  powerful  popular  effect.  His 
learning  was  immense,  extending  even  to  Sanscrit, 
which  he  first  introduced  to  German  scholars.  He 
lectured  on  philosophy,  history,  and  literature  ;  was 
famed  as  a  poet  and  a  brilliant  talker.  He  died 
in  1829. 

I  have  called  him  the  best  type  of  Romanticism, 
exhibiting  as  he  does  in  his  career  every  phase  which 
has  been  described  as  characteristic  of  the  develop- 
ment. Coming  in  his  youth  under  the  influence  of 
Fichte' s  idealism,  he  shows  in  his  writings  mystical 
obscurity.  Following  Schelling  in  considering  na- 
ture only  a  symbol  of  the  spiritual,  he  loses  all ' 


THE    ROMANTIC   SCHOOL.  491 

clear  sight  of  history  and  the  relations  of  life.  Sad- 
dened by  the  hard  circumstances  of  Germany,  he 
obtained  comfort  by  turning  to  the  past,  and  in  his 
contemplation  became  dazzled  with  the  glory  of  the 
Middle  Ages,  forgetting  their  shame.  In  particular 
he  was  attracted  to  the  ecclesiastical  life,  beholding 
in  the  Romish  Church  the  acme  of  artistic  and  hu- 
mane culture,  the  fosterer  of  art  and  poetry,  the 
mother  of  civilization.  Blind  to  its  shortcomings, 
he  became  its  votary,  and  longed  to  see  it  at  the 
centre  of  modern  life,  as  it  had  been  in  mediaeval 
days.  Of  his  sincerity  there  can  be  no  more  question 
than  of  his  genius.  As  he  was  eloquent  and  learned, 
he  was  a  great  poet ;  would  indeed  deserve  here 
to  stand  among  the  immortals,  were  it  not  that  all 
flows  onward  in  such  dreamy,  sounding  indefiniteness, 
with  only  now  and  then  an  intelligible  tone.  "The 
arabesque,"  said  he,  "the  musical  swaying  of  the 
line,  the  contours  not  more  definite  than  the  clouds  of 
evening,  —  this  is  the  oldest  and  most  original  form 
of  poetry." x  No  better  name  can  be  given  to  his  own 
poems  ;  they  are  arabesques, — not  transcripts  of  any 
thing  existing,  but  lines  and  contours  swaying  with 
exquisite  indefinite  grace  according  to  the  fancy.  In 
his  learning,  in  his  dreamy  philosophy,  in  his  power 
of  eloquent  utterance  soaring  into  brilliant  rhapsody, 
in  his  mystic,  strangely  beautiful  poetry  we  shall  find 
his  counterpart,  I  think,  in  the  English  Coleridge, 
who  indeed  at  the  same  time  with  him  had  stooped 
and  drunk  from  the  spring  of  the  same  enchanters. 


Quoted  by  Brandes. 


492  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

When  one  passing  from  Eisenach  beholds  the 
Wartburg  crowning  its  wooded  summit,  there  is 
nothing  better  to  have  in  mind  than  Friedrich 
Schlegel's  enthusiastic  rhapsody  written  here  in 
1802,  in  which,  forgetting  for  the  moment  his  mys- 
ticism, he  glorified  the  old  time. 

"  On  the  mountain's  height  there  dwelt  the  heroes 
of  old,  the  knights  of  the  beautiful  land.  Weaponed 
with  iron,  from  the  fastness  of  stone  they  looked 
boldly  down  into  the  valley.  The  woods  all  green 
around,  clothed  in  sun  and  mist,  exhaled  from  a  thou- 
sand pores  refreshment,  and  murmured  deep  songs 
when  swept  by  the  tempest,  as  out  of  the  dark  mys- 
tery of  the  lofty  North .  Full  of  thought  and  blessed , 
in  the  summer,  stood  the  hero  at  the  window.  Lift- 
ing his  helmet's  visor,  he  traced  in  the  dizzy  path- 
ways of  the  clouds  the  forms  of  giants  mysterious. 
Smiling  in  joy,  how  broad  and  slow  winds  the  stream, 
now  black,  now  silver,  through  the  plain  growing 
green  !  There  are  the  pleasant  villages  at  the  side, 
the  beautiful  cities,  with  slender  towers  vocal  with 
bell-tones.  Slowly  proceeds  along  the  highway  in 
the  valley  the  wealth  of  the  East  in  full  triumph, 
chariots  and  men,  glowing  stones  and  blooming 
fruits,  India's  golden  blessing. 

««  When  the  spring  blooms  he  sweeps  through  the 
forest,  now  in  the  company  of  his  retinue,  now  bur- 
ied in  his  own  thoughts,  where  no  tread  resounds, 
where  the  wild  beast  no  longer  flees,  looking  at  him 
with  intelligent  eyes.  Joyfully  returns  he  again  to 
his  cliif  in  the  evening.  Full  of  charm  approaches 
the  lofty  lady  of  his  heart.  They  look  into  one 


THE   ROMANTIC  SCHOOL.  493 

another's  holy  eyes  ;  joyfully  does  virtue  embrace  the 
hero,  and  in  the  midst  of  joys  she  girds  him  with  a 
mighty  sword  to  extinguish  all  vices.  But  when  the 
brown  earth  is  frozen,  and  the  rivers  gleam  like  iron, 
and  the  woods  shine  white,  then  by  the  cheerful 
hearth  they  listen  to  old  stories,  —  how  the  dwarfs 
live  in  the  caverns.  In  spirit  they  behold  the 
abysses  aglow  with  lights,  full  of  treasures  and 
gnomes. 

"  So  lived  the  heroes  of  old,  the  knights  of  the 
beautiful  land.  And  when  at  last  they  departed, 
Michael  took  them  in  his  mighty  arms  and  bore  them 
to  Heaven  !  In  their  gleaming  armor  they  stood  be- 
fore heavenly  heroes.  Full  of  devotion  kneeled  the 
knight,  bowing  his  head  as  he  beheld  the  celestial 
purple  of  love,  the  blood  of  eternal  hope,  until, 
blessing,  the  hand  of  the  Saviour  touched  him.  Then 
felt  he  the  clasp  of  venerable  Charlemagne,  and 
Roland  and  Reinhold  gave  him  welcome  and  com- 
fort." 

Of  greater  fame  in  Germany  than  Friedrich  Schle- 
gel  was  Lur-wig  Tieck,  who  becoming  known  at  Jena 
to  the  Schlegels  as  a  gifted  young  man,  came  under 
the  same  influences  that  affected  them.  He  was  for 
a  time  greatly  overestimated.  His  life  extended  to 
1853,  and  he  too  exhibited  that  appalling  German 
fecundity  which  forgets  that  the  existence  of  the 
longest-lived  reader  is  but  a  span,  and  his  power  of 
comprehension  and  his  eyesight  limited.  His  schol- 
arship was  broad ;  he  made  Shakespeare,  the  old 
German  poems,  the  literature  of  the  south  of  Eu- 


494  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

rope  better  known.  In  particular,  he  translated 
well  "  Don  Quixote."  "If  it  was  the  intention  of 
Cervantes  in  "Don  Quixote"  to  gibbet  the  fools 
who  wanted  to  restore  the  mediaeval  chivalry,  and  so 
recall  to  life  a  defunct  past,  it  is  an  amusing  irony  of 
fate  that  it  is  Romanticism  which  has  given  us  the 
best  translation  of  a  book  in  which  their  own  ab- 
surdities are  most  effectively  raked."  l  He  was  able 
as  a  critic,  and  dealt  indefatigably  with  foiry  tales. 
As  a  poet,  he  cultivated  especially  the  lyric. 
Among  his  many  gifts  was  a  marvellous  histrionic 
faculty,  which  might  have  made  him  a  great  actor. 
He  used  it,  however,  solely  for  the  amusement  of 
his  friends  ;  sometimes  giving  tragedy,  sometimes 
comedy,  with  superb  effect.  An  amusing  story  is 
told  of  his  carrying  through,  alone,  a  piece  contain- 
ing five  or  six  strongly-contrasted  characters,  one  of 
whom  was  an  orang-outang,  represented  as  a  senti- 
mental admirer  of  Kotzebue.  Although  he  was  a 
bright  light  of  the  Romanticists,  he  did  not  always 
remain  one,  forsaking  at  length  their  peculiarities 
and  writing  his  later  pieces  in  the  purer  taste  of 
Gothe.  Seeking  for  the  characteristics  which  make 
it  appropriate  to  class  him  with  the  Romanticists,  we 
find  that  he  had  excessive  subjectivity,  striving  to 
impress  his  own  sense,  whims,  dreamings,  upon  the 
objects  of  nature.  "Many  a  thing,"  he  says, 
"should  occur  to  a  man  in  a  natural  object,  in  a 
lake  or  a  leaf,  which  certainly  does  not  lie  in  the 
thing  for  another  organized  being,  but  merely  in  the 

1  Heine. 


THE    ROMANTIC  SCHOOL.  495 

soul  of  the  beholder."  Instead  of  showing  respect, 
so  to  speak,  for  the  rights  of  the  object,  the  inter- 
pretation of  it  becomes  upon  this  theory  a  merely 
arbitrary  matter.  For  Tieck,  what  lay  in  nature  was 
what  lay  in  his  own  soul,  —  the  whims  which  often 
were  more  attractive  the  more  eccentric ;  he  de- 
scended into  his  own  consciousness  to  get  the  image 
of  his  camel.  In  a  great  part  of  his  lyrics  he  rep- 
resents the  things  of  nature  as  personified,  making 
them  then  speak  out  the  sense  of  which  in  his  idea 
they  were  symbols,  following  the  thought  of  Schel- 
ling.  They  are  often  lovely,  but  utterly  arbitrary. 
They  give  not  nature,  but  attractions,  secret  yearn- 
ings, and  vaporous  whims  ;  and  corresponding  to 
the  inner  uncertainty  was  the  form  vague.  Speak- 
ing of  Tieck' s  lyrics  in  his  Romantic  period,  says 
Braiides  :  "They  resemble  those  of  Gothe  as  the 
clouds  in  the  horizon  resemble  firm  snow  mountains. 
The  hearer  stands  opposite  them  like  Polonius  in 
"Hamlet,"  only  more  honestly  doubtful  than  he, 
and  cannot  tell  whether  it  is  most  like  a  camel,  a 
weasel,  or  a  whale."1 

But  the  most  gifted  and  interesting  of  the  Roman- 
ticists is  yet  to  be  described.  Riding  from  Leipsig 
westward  toward  Thuringia,  the  traveller  will  catch 
sight  of  the  town  of  Weissenfels,  beyond  the  river 
Saale,  a  strong  castle  in  the  centre.  Here  Gustavus 
Adolphus  left  his  armor  when  marching  out  to  the 
plain  of  Liitzen,  not  many  miles  away,  and  here  they 


Hauptstromungen. 


496  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

brought  his  body  afterward  for  the  embalming. 
But  an  even  more  tender  association  with  the  town 
is  that  here,  in  the  position  of  a  government  official, — 
as  strange  a  place  for  him  as  the  Salem  custom-house 
for  Hawthorne,  —  Friedrich  Georg  von  Harden- 
berg,  or,  as  he  is  known  in  literature,  Novalis,  with 
a  hectic  flush  on  his  beautiful  face,  dreamed  and 
yearned  away  the  brief  years  of  his  manhood.  He 
died  at  twenty-nine.  He  had  grown  up  a  delicate 
child,  coming  in  youth  under  the  spell  of  Fichte, 
and  becoming  acquainted  with  the  Schlegels.  In 
him  we  find  the  strongest  idealism,  before  which  the 
outer  world  becomes  the  merest  shadowy  veil ;  a 
tendency  to  symbolism  so  strong  that  not  only  do 
natural  objects  stand  for  ideas,  but  even  the  simplest 
and  commonest  relations  of  life  —  commerce,  min- 
ing, agriculture — he  surrounds  with  a  solemn  mystic 
light,  seeking  to  impart  to  them  a  supersensual 
significance.  He  was  penetrated  with  enthusiasm 
for  the  mediaeval  life,  and  abjured  Protestantism  for 
the  older  faith.  His  spiritual  songs  are  full  of  that 
sweet  mysticism  to  be  found  in  Tauler,  from  which 
came,  in  part,  the  Eeformation,  —  rarely  beautiful 
in  their  vapory  unfolding  with  iridescent  fancies, 
and  suggesting  in  their  forms  the  robes  and  wings 
of  angels.  But  in  his  incomplete  romance,  "  Hein- 
rich  von  Ofterdingen,"  we  find  his  most  character- 
istic work.  Heinrich  is  a  mediaeval  hero,  a  minne- 
singer, but  with  every  step  the  presentation  falls 
more  and  more  away  into  the  incomprehensible. 
Novalis  concerns  himself  with  the  most  supernal 
matters,  which  from  their  nature  cannot  be  em- 


THE   ROMANTIC  SCHOOL.  497 

bodied  objectively.  The  figures,  which  at  first  have 
some  distinctness,  vanish  more  and  more  until  all 
becomes  dream-like  and  allegorical.  There  are  pas- 
sages worthy  of  the  greatest  poet ;  these  are  oases  in 
a  rainbow-hued  waste,  areas  of  definiteness  in  an  im- 
penetrable mist  that  covers  every  thing.1  The  Ger- 
mans, find  some  resemblance  between  Novalis  and 
Shelley,  and  a  parallel  perhaps  can  be  drawn ;  the 
same  superb  poetic  gift,  in  both  vagueness  of  pre- 
sentment, the  spirit  in  its  proud  self-assertion  dis- 
daining all  bonds  of  form,  for  both  the  early  grave. 
But  on  the  other  hand  the  fervor  of  Catholic  piety 
in  Novalis,  that  sings  happiness  in  Jesus  and  rhapso- 
dizes over  the  communion,  contrasts  strongly  with 
Shelley's  defiant  unbelief.  I  give  a  passage  from 
Heine's  consideration: 

"The  muse  of  Novalis  was  a  pale  and  slender 
maid,  with  earnest  blue  eyes,  golden,  hyacinthine 
locks,  smiling  lips,  and  a  little  red  mole  on  the  left 
side- of  her  chin.  In  other  words,  I  always  conceive 
the  muse  of  Novalis  as  the  maid  who  first  made 
Novalis  known  to  me.  She  dressed  always  in  blue, 
and  was  called  Sophia.  She  lived  a  few  stations 
from  Gottingen,  with  her  sister,  the  postmistress. 
She  was  tender  as  a  sensitive-plant,  and  her  words 
were  as  fragrant  and  purely  sounding,  and  if  they 
were  put  together  they  became  verses.  One  of  these 
poems,  which  she  repeated  to  me  when  I  took  leave 
of  her,  is  especially  dear  to  me.  In  a  garden,  in 
autumn,  in  which  there  has  been  an  illumination,  a 


1  Kurz. 
32 


498  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

conversation  is  heard  between  the  last  taper,  the 
last  rose,  and  a  wild  swan.  The  morning  mists 
break  in  ;  the  taper  is  extinguished,  the  rose  withers, 
the  swan  unfolds  his  wings  and  flies  southward. 
Once  in  a  dead  swan's  breast  we  found  an  arrow, 
which  Professor  Blumenbach  recognized  as  African. 
Poor  bird  !  with  the  arrow  in  the  breast  it  had  re- 
turned to  its  mother  to  die.  When  late  in  autumn 
I  returned  from  the  south,  my  way  led  me  near  Got- 
tingen.  When  I  asked  the  postilion  Piepe  about 
the  sister  of  the  postmistress,  he  replied :  *  Miss 
Sophia  will  die  soon,  and  she  is  an  angel  already.' 
Miss  Sophia  was  standing  at  a  window,  reading. 
When  I  went  up  to  her,  I  found  again  in  her  hands 
the  *  Ofterdingen '  of  Novalis.  She  had  read  con- 
stantly in  this  book,  had  read  consumption  out  of  it, 
and  looked  like  a  gleaming  shadow.  But  she  now 
possessed  a  spiritual  beauty,  the  sight  of  which 
moved  me  most  painfully.  I  took  her  two  pale, 
thin  hands,  looked  deep  into  her  blue  eyes,  and  asked 
at  last  for  her  health.  *  I  am  well,'  she  said,  *  and 
shall  soon  be  better.'  She  pointed  out  of  the  win- 
dow to  the  new  church-yard,  a  little  hill  close  by  the 
house.  On  the  bleak  hill  stood  a  single,  small,  dry 
poplar,  on  which  a  few  leaves  yet  hung,  which  swayed 
in  the  autumn  wind,  not  like  a  living  tree,  but  like  a 
tree's  ghost.  Under  this  tree  now  lies  Miss  Sophia. 
The  souvenir  she  bequeathed  me,  the  '  Heinrich  Von 
Ofterdingen '  of  Novalis,  lies  before  me  now  on  my 
desk,  and  I  am  using  it  in  writing  this  chapter."  l 


1  Die  Komantische  Schule. 


THE   ROMANTIC  SCHOOL.  499 

I  cannot  even  mention  the  names  that  are  enu- 
merated as  belonging  to  this  most  loosely  denned 
school.  As  with  it  cloudy  incoherency  became  a 
principle,  it  seems  to  defy  all  classification  and  sys- 
tematic treatment.  Friedrich  Schlegel,  we  have 
seen,  comes  nearer  than  any  other  one  to  showing 
in  himself  all  the  marks  which  are  taken  to  charac- 
terize Romanticism.  By  far  the  greater  part  of  the 
writers  exhibit  the  characteristics  imperfectly,  and 
their  connection  with  the  development  is  often  of  the 
slightest.  In  fact,  the  classification  is  of  the  loosest, 
most  unsatisfactory  kind,  only  tolerable  because 
nothing  better  is  possible  ;  it  does  suffice  to  furnish 
a  thread  which  is  of  some  help  to  a  student  in  mak- 
ing his  way  among  a  multitude  of  names.  Wack- 
enroder,  author  of  "Heart  Gushings  of  an  Art- 
Loving  Cloister  Brother,"  is  a  Romanticist  mainly 
by  virtue  of  the  enthusiasm  with  which  he  adopted 
the  faith  of  the  Romish  Church.  «  The  notes  of 
the  full  Latin  chant  which,  rising  and  falling,  made 
their  way  through  the  swelling  tones  of  the  instru- 
mental music,  like  ships  which  sail  through  the 
waves  of  the  sea,  raised  my  spirit  constantly  higher ; 
and  when  the  music  in  this  way  had  penetrated  my 
entire  being,  and  run  through  all  my  veins,  then  I 
raised  my  eyes  and  looked  about  me.  The  whole 
temple  became  living  before  my  gaze,  so  intoxicated 
had  I  grown  through  the  harmony.  At  the  moment 
when  it  ceased,  a  priest  stepped  before  the  high 
altar,  raised  the  Host  with  an  inspired  gesture,  and 
showed  it  to  the  people.  Then  all  the  people  sank 
upon  their  knees,  and  trumpets  and  powerful  tones 


500  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 

of  I  know  not  what  kind  stormed  and  thundered  a 
sublime  devotion  through  all  my  limbs.  Then  it 
clearly  seemed  to  me  as  if  all  those  kneeling  prayed 
to  the  Father  in  Heaven  for  the  salvation  of  my  soul, 
drawing  me  over  to  the  faith  with  irresistible  power." 
Fouque,  the  famous  author  of  "  Undine,"  is  a 
Romanticist  through  the  enthusiasm  he  felt  for 
mediaeval  subjects  ;  in  still  others  the  bond  of  con- 
nection is  some  tinge  of  mysticism.  Wide  apart  as 
the  poles  from  their  dreamy  brethren  are  Ernst 
Moritz  Arndt  and  Theodore  Korner.  When  Ger- 
many was  on  fire  with  aspirations  for  freedom, 
in  1813,  these  were  the  singers  who  wrote  the 
lays  the  armies  sang  when  marching  into  battle, 
that  were  sung  in  the  homes  to  bring  new  armies 
forth.  Most  energetic,  not  a  breath  of  vapory 
vagueness,  not  a  whisper  of  allusion  to  any  far- 
away time,  they  speak  right  to  the  German's 
heart  with  patriotism  the  deepest,  with  ardor  that 
becomes  sometimes  ferocity.  Such  is  the  tone  of 
Arndt' s  fierce  thanksgiving  to  the  God  that  made 
iron  grow,  so  that  there  might  be  weapons  ;  and  of 
Korner' s  invocation  to  the  sword,  his  bride,  —  a 
song  which  rang  through  his  soul  as  he  swept,  in 
the  saddle,  on  in  a  charge  with  Ltitzow's  wild  hunt, 
dashed  down  upon  paper  in  the  bivouac,  while  bugles 
were  calling,  the  youthful  hand  that  wrote  it  pres- 
ently mouldering  in  a  soldier's  grave.  The  love  of 
the  fatherland  thus  expressed  was  really  connected 
with  the  dwelling  upon  the  glories  of  the  ancient 
empire.  First  came  the  ardent  remembrance  of  the 
splendor  of  the  time  of  the  Hohenstauffen  ;  then  the 


THE   ROMANTIC   SCHOOL.  501 

desire  to  have  it  renewed ;  then  the  belief  that  it 
would  be  renewed ;  then,  last  in  the  development, 
the  hot  urging  of  the  military  spirit  against  the  op- 
pressor that  stood  in  the  way  of  the  renewal. 

Here  is  one  of  the  ' '  Sonnets  in  Armor  "  *  of  the 
poet  Riickert,  a  collection  of  pieces  which  have  the 
patriotic  fire  of  Arndt  and  Korner : 

What  forge  ye,  smiths?     "  "Tis  fetters  we  are  making." 

Alas !  'tis  fetters  ye  yourselves  are  wearing. 

Farmers,  why  plough?     "Fruits  must  the  field  be  bearing." 

Yes,  for  the  foe  the  crop, — yourselves  in  fetters  quaking. 

Hunter,  what  game?     " The  fatted  deer  I'm  taking." 

Death-aiming  eyes  on  thee  thyself  are  glaring. 

Fisher,  what  dost  thou?     "Timid  fish  I'm  snaring." 

The  hands  of  death  to  grasp  thee  now  are  aching. 

Ye  rock  your  children,  loving,  sleepless  mothers, 

That  they  may  grow,  and,  while  the  land  doth  languish, 

March  with  the  foe,  with  wounds  their  country  smiting ! 

"What  writest  thou,  O,  bard?     "Mine  and  my  brother's 

Shame  in  hot,  fiery  words,  — my  nation's  anguish, 

Which  dares  not  for  its  freedom  to  be  fighting !  " 

Riickert  was  one  of  the  best  Orientalists  of  his 
time,  writing  often  under  the  inspiration  caught  from 
Eastern  literatures.  For  his  "  Sonnets  in  Armor  " 
mainly,  however,  he  is  to  be  classed  among  the  Ro- 
manticists. Then  Achim  von  Arnim  and  Clemens 
Brentano;  Werner, — child  of  an  insane  mother, 
who  believed  herself,  before  his  birth,  the  Virgin 
Mary  pregnant  with  another  Saviour,  —  a  wild  dram- 
atist, later  a  Catholic  preacher  at  Vienna,  awing  the 
world  with  a  half-mad  eloquence ;  Hoffmann,  the 
writer  of  weird  romances,  whose  counterpart  is 

1  G-eharnischte  Sonetten. 


502  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

Poe, — all  these,  and  many  another  in  this  time  and 
race  full  of  seething  intellectual  life,  poets,  tale- 
writers,  dreamers,  scholars,  we  can  link  in  one  way 
or  another  to  the  Romantic  school.  There  is  only 
space  for  an  account  of  the  poet  in  whom  Romanti- 
cism is  considered  to  have  come  to  its  end, — Lud- 
wig  Uhland. 

Uhland,  born  in  1789,  has  died  almost  in  our  own 
day.  In  his  youth  he  felt  strongly  the  influence  of 
Romanticism,  then  in  its  fullest  tide,  and  went  from 
Swabia,  his  native  land,  to  Paris,  to  study  mediaeval 
manuscripts.  In  1813  he  sang  the  uprising  of  the 
German  people.  When  the  downfall  of  the  French 
power  occurred,  he  became  diverted  from  his  proper 
path  and  took  part  in  politics,  withstanding  with 
noble  courage  the  petty  despotism  which  in  Southern 
Germany,  when  the  foreign  domination  was  broken, 
sought  to  reestablish  itself.  Starting  with  the  Ro- 
manticists, he  early  showed  a  different  tendency. 
He  gave  the  school  a  new  character,  powerful  with 
life ;  we  may  say  he  destroyed  it,  because  he  con- 
quered its  most  essential  characteristic,  the  dreamy, 
yearning,  ideal  indistinctness.  Though  a  passionate 
admirer  of  the  old  literature,  he  felt  no  enthusiasm 
for  the  old  empire ;  the  intense  subjectivity  of  Ro- 
manticism he  forsook,  and  gave  to  the  outer  world 
due  respect.  Once  more  appeared  in  German  litera- 
ture the  simplicity,  truth,  and  unaffected  grace  of  the 
volks-lied.  His  subjects  are  for  the  most  part  sim- 
ple, and  near  to  our  sympathies  ;  his  lyrics  some- 
times pensive,  but  generally  cheerful,  abounding  in 
love  of  nature,  and  sometimes  humorous.  His  pop- 


THE   ROMANTIC  SCHOOL.  503 

ularity  was  unbounded.  As  his  followers  became 
numerous  they  constituted  what  is  called  the  Swa- 
bian  school,  several  of  them  becoming  poets  of 
eminence.  Perhaps  his  genius  was  at  its  best  when 
he  considered  some  mediaeval  subject,  catching  the 
spirit  of  the  old  minstrels,  whose  songs  he  so  much 
loved.  Of  that  kind  is  his  famous  drama,  "Ernst 
von  Schwaben,"  and  many  a  sounding  ballad  which 
has  the  ring  of  the  vigorous  poets  of  the  early  time. 
I  translate  here  the  song  which  Heine  calls  the 
most  beautiful  of  Uhland's  songs,  one  which  in  his 
boyhood  Heine  declaimed,  sitting  among  the  ruins 
of  the  old  castle  at  Diisseldorf,  until  he  heard  his 
voice  reechoed  by  the  water-spirits  from  the  Rhine : 

The  handsome  shepherd  slowly  strayed, 

The  king's  high  palace-hall  in  view ; 
Forth  from  the  turret  looked  the  maid, 

And  full  of  yearning  grew. 

To  him  with  sweetest  voice  she  cried  r 
"  O  would  I  might  come  down  to  thee ! 

How  white  the  lamhs  there  at  thy  side ! 
How  red  the  flowrets  free  !  " 

The  youth  her  greeting  straight  returns : 
"  O  would  thou  couldst  come  down  to  me  J 

Thy  cheek  with  rosy  beauty  burns, 
And  white  the  arms  I  see." 

And  when  he  now,  with  heart  aglow, 

His  flock  each  morning  thither  drove. 
He  gazed,  till  in  her  turret,  lo, 

Appeared  his  beauteous  love ! 

Then  he  in  friendly  voice  would  say  : 

"  Welcome,  dear  daughter  of  the  king !  " 

"I  thank  thee,  shepherd  mine !  "  straightway 
Her  voice  would  downward  ring. 


504  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

The  winter  fled ;  then  came  spring-tide ; 

The  flowrets  bloomed  the  meadows  o'er. 
Straight  to  the  spot  the  shepherd  hied; 

The  maid  appeared  no  more. 

He  called  with  voice  all  full  of  woe ; 

"  Welcome,  dear  daughter  of  the  king! " 
"Adieu,  adieu,  my  shepherd!  "  lo, 

A  ghost's  voice  down  did  ring ! 


That  Uhland,  who  in  his  younger  manhood  wrote 
with  such  enthusiasm  and  success,  allowed  the  lyre 
to  become  silent  in  his  hands,  as  his  life  went  for- 
ward, is  due  no  doubt  to  the  circumstances  among 
which  he  was  thrown.  In  public  life  he  stood  forth 
bravely  and  at  great  sacrifice  in  defence  of  popular 
rights,  civil  equality,  and  intellectual  freedom, — the 
great  Protestant  ideas.  Naturally  his  interest  in  a 
past  whose  institutions  were  Catholic  and  feudal  was 
lessened.  As  Heine  puts  it:  "Precisely  because 
his  intentions  were  so  honest  as  regards  the  modern 
time,  he  could  no  longer  sing  the  songs  of  the  old 
time  with  his  former  enthusiasm.  Since  his  Pega- 
sus was  a  knightly  charger  only,  which  liked  to  trot 
back  into  the  past,  but  immediately  stood  still  when 
urged  forward  into  modern  life,  the  honest  Uhland 
smilingly  dismounted,  had  the  obstinate  beast  quietly 
unsaddled  and  led  into  the  stable.  There  he  stands 
to  the  present  day,  and  like  his  colleague,  the  horse 
of  Bayard,  has  only  one  fault, — he  is  dead." 


1  Die  Romantische  Schule. 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

HEINRICH  HEINE. 


In  one  of  the  old  towns  on  the  Ehine,  I  went  to  see 
a  synagogue  which  tradition  says  was  built  before 
the  Christian  era.  In  Roman  legions  served  certain 
Jews,  who,  stationed  here  on  the  frontier  of  Gaul, 
which  had  just  been  subdued,  founded  a  temple  of 
their  faith.  I  felt  that  the  low,  blackened  walls  of 
time-defying  masonry  had,  at  any  rate,  an  immense 
antiquity.  The  blocks  of  stone  were  beaten  by  the 
weather  ;  the  thresholds  nearly  worn  through  by  the 
passing  of  feet ;  a  deep  hollow  lay  in  a  stone  at  the 
portal,  where  the  multitude  of  generations  had 
touched  it  with  the  finger  in  sacred  observance. 
Within  the  low  interior  my  Jewish  guide  told  me  a 
sorrowful  legend,  which  was  no  doubt  in  part  true, 
relating  to  a  lamp  burning  with  a  double  flame  be- 
fore the  shrine.  Once,  in  the  old  cruel  days,  that 
hatred  might  be  excited  against  the  Jews  of  the  city, 
a  dead  child  was  secretly  thrown  by  the  Christians 
into  the  cellar  of  one  of  their  faith.  Straightway 
an  accusation  was  brought  by  the  contrivers  of  the 
trick ;  the  child  was  found,  and  the  innocent  He- 
brews accused  of  the  murder.  The  authorities  of 
the  city  threatened  at  once  to  throw  the  chief  men 
of  the  congregation  into  a  caldron  of  boiling  oil  if 


506  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

the  murderers  were  not  produced.  Time  passed ; 
the  rabbi  and  elders  were  bound,  and  heard  already, 
close  at  hand,  the  simmering  of  the  preparing  tor- 
ture. Then  appeared  two  strangers,  who  gave  them- 
selves into  the  hands  of  the  magistrates,  voluntarily 
accusing  themselves  of  the  crime.  Into  the  cal- 
drons they  were  at  once  thrown,  from  which,  as  they 
died,  ascended  two  milk-white  doves.  Innocent, 
with  a  pious  lie  upon  their  lips,  they  sacrificed  them- 
selves to  save  others.  To  commemorate  their  deed, 
the  lamp  with  the  double  flame  had  been  kept  for- 
ever burning  within  the  low  arch. 

I  walked  one  day  through  the  Juden-gasse  at 
Frankfort.  The  modern  world  is  ashamed  of  the 
cruelty  and  prejudice  of  the  past,  and  would  like  to 
hide  from  sight  the  things  that  bear  witness  to  it. 
The  low,  strong  wall  however  was  still  standing, 
within  whose  narrow  confines  the  Jews  were  crowded, 
never  safe  from  violence,  or  even  death,  if  they 
were  found  outside  at  times  not  permitted.  Many 
of  the  ancient  houses  still  remained,  the  fronts  dis- 
colored, channelled,  towering  up  in  mutilation  and 
decay  that  were  pathetic,  as  if  they  had  partaken  in 
the  long  suffering  of  their  inmates,  and  were  stained 
and  furrowed  by  tears.  From  one  of  the  battered 
houses  came  the  family  of  Rothschild,  to  stand  as  the 
right-hand  men  of  kings,  and  hold  nations  in  their 
hands,  exchanging  the  squalor  of  the  Juden-gasse 
for  palaces  ;  but  the  old  mother  of  the  family  would 
never  leave  the  straitened  home.  She  came  to  be- 
lieve that  the  fortunes  of  her  sons  depended  upon 
her  remaining  within  the  wall.  She  would  go  for  a 


HEINRICH  HEINE.  507 

day's  visit  to  her  sons  in  their  splendid  abodes,  but 
at  nightfall  always  returned,  and  in  the  Juden- 
gasse,  at  last,  she  died.  The  Jews  of  to-day  seem 
to  take  pleasure  in  contrasting  their  present  con- 
dition with  their  past  misery.  They  have  chosen 
to  erect  their  stately  synagogue  among  the  old  roofs, 
upon  the  foundations  even  of  the  wall  with  which 
the  past  tried  to  fence  them  off  from  all  Christian 
contact. 

In  a  certain  sense,  the  most  rationalistic  thinker 
will  admit  that  the  Jews  are  "  the  chosen  people 
of  the  Lord."  For  intense  passionate  force  there 
is  no  people  among  the  races  of  the  earth  so  re- 
markable. In  whatever  direction  the  Jew  sends 
his  feeling,  is  it  not  right  to  say  that  he  surpasses 
in  earnestness  all  other  men?  If  the  passion  be 
mean  or  wicked,  to  what  depths  will  he  not  descend? 
Fagin  and  Shylock  are  our  types  of  the  extremity 
of  unscrupulous  malice.  But  if  his  hate  is  bitter, 
a  force  just  as  great,  on  the  other  hand,  appears 
in  his  love.  Be  it  child  or  parent,  be  it  mistress, 
friend,  or  wealth,  tne  Jew's  love  is  the  most  intense 
of  loves.  If  the  yearning  takes  an  upward  direction, 
it  becomes  the  purest  and  most  earnest  of  religions, 
voicing  itself  in  psalm  and  prophecy,  becoming  con- 
crete at  length  in  the  Christ,  the  outshining  of  God 
Himself.  The  spiritual  energy  of  the  Jew  mani- 
fests itself  very  strikingly  in  the  tenacity  with  which 
he  clings  to  his  nationality.  Eighteen  hundred  years 
have  passed  since  the  race,  in  its  old  home,  was  con- 
quered and  driven  forth  to  the  four  winds.  Since 
then  what  have  they  not  suffered?  Take  the  his- 


508  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

tory  of  any  of  the  civilized  nations,  and  no  page 
will  be  found  quite  so  tragic  as  the  story  of  its 
treatment  of  the  Jews.  Robbery  and  exile,  torture 
and  death,  —  not  a  woe  that  man  can  inflict  upon  his 
fellow-man  has  been  spared  them,  and  the  agents 
of  the  cruelty  have  often  felt  that  in  exercising  it 
they  were  only  performing  service  to  God.  Men 
chivalrous  and  saintly  have  persecuted  the  Jews  al- 
most in  proportion  to  their  chivalry  and  sanctity. 
Richard  Cceur  de  Lion  taxes  and  massacres  them 
without  mercy ;  in  the  mediaeval  cities  the  hands 
that  were  shaping  the  great  cathedrals  heap  up  fag- 
gots by  wholesale  for  the  Jew-burnings  ;  Ferdinand 
and  Isabella  drive  them  forth  by  thousands  ;  Luther 
turns  from  them  with  abhorrence.  In  the  oppres- 
sion to  which  the  race  has  been  subjected,  nearly  all 
forms  of  activity  have  been  forbidden  to  it  except 
money-getting,  —  a  narrow,  sordid  channel,  but 
through  that  Jewish  energy  has  rushed  until,  de- 
spised though  the  people  were,  they  have  had  the 
world  almost  at  their  mercy.  But  beaten  though 
their  hands  have  been,  their  grip  has  hardly  relaxed 
a  particle  upon  the  traditions  and  customs  they 
value.  Even  in  outward  traits  there  has  been  little 
change.  Abraham  and  Mordecai  confront  us  to- 
day in  the  streets  with  the  very  features  of  their 
progenitors  of  the  same  names,  as  they  stand  fixed 
on  the  monuments  of  Nineveh.  Whatever  soften- 
ing they  may  undergo  through  the  influence  of 
modern  ideas,  Jerusalem,  to  multitudes  of  them,  is 
still  their  holy  city ;  the  babe  must  undergo  cir- 
cumcision ;  for  themselves  and  the  stranger  within 


HEINRICH  HEINE.  509 

their  gates  the  unleavened  bread  must  be  prepared 
at  the  feast  of  the  passover.  Tenacity  how  mar- 
vellous !  The  world,  with  blow  after  blow  of  out- 
rage and  contumely,  has  not  been  able  to  hunt  the 
life  out  of  its  grizzly  Judean  prey. 

It  is  only  yesterday,  as  it  were,  that  a  beginning 
was  made  of  lifting  the  weight  off  the  shoulders  of 
the  Jews.  When  Lessing  selected  a  Jew  to  be  the 
hero  of  his  grandest  play,  the  innovation  was  so  un- 
heard of  as  to  mark  his  intrepidity  more  strongly 
perhaps  than  any  act  he  ever  performed.  Even  late 
in  the  eighteenth  century  Jews  were  massacred  in 
Europe.  Up  to  the  time  of  the  Napoleonic  wars,  in 
most  countries  they  were  a  race  of  pariahs.  They 
had  scarcely  any  rights  in  the  courts  ;  on  church 
holidays  it  was  part  of  the  regular  celebration  to 
hunt  them  through  the  streets  and  sack  their  houses  ; 
in  some  cities  only  twenty-five  Jews  were  allowed 
to  marry  during  a  year,  that  the  accursed  race  might 
not  increase  too  fast.  So  late  as  1830,  the  Jews  in 
Hamburg  were  hunted  with  the  old  bitterness  ;  even 
Solomon  Heine, — -'the  richest  banker  in  Germany, 
the  man  upon  whose  shoulders  the  prosperity  of  the 
city  to  a  large  extent  rested,  who  had  given  whole 
fortunes  in  the  most  catholic  spirit  for  innumer- 
able charities  and  public  ends,  —  with  difficulty  saved 
himself  from  outrage. 

A  story  how  long  and  how  tragic  !  The  Jew  has 
paid  back  hate  for  hate,  and  scorn  for  scorn.  I  well 
remember  going  into  the  shop  of  a  Jew  in  an  ancient 
city,  and,  during  our  bargain,  crossing  his  purpose 
in  a  way  that  aroused  his  anger.  The  flash  in  his 
dark  eye  was  of  the  hereditary  wrath  bequeathed  to 


510  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

him  from  many  generations  of  persecuted  fathers, 
called  forth  by  the  son  of  the  Christian,  who  stood 
before  him ;  in  the  hiss  with  which  his  words  came 
forth  I  heard  the  serpent  that  had  been  gathering 
its  poison  for  almost  two  thousand  years  ! 

Has  the  spirit  of  this  race,  _so  intense,  so  per- 
sistent, so  trampled  by  persecution,  ever  found  an 
adequate  voice?  Yes,  a  voice  which  is  pervaded 
with  all  the  melancholy  that  such  long-continued 
suffering  would  cause,  in  which  we  seem  to  hear 
sometimes  the  saddest  wailing ;  then  again  a  ter- 
rible wit,  sometimes  indeed  lightly  playful,  but 
more  often  resembling  the  laughter  of  a  man  mad 
through  despair ;  in  which  too  there  is  at  times  a 
gall  and  bitterness,  as  of  the  waters  of  Marah, 
poured  out  too  indiscriminately  upon  the  innocent 
as  well  as  upon  those  worthy  of  scorn,  —  the  voice 
of  Heinrich  Heine. 

He  was  born  of  Jewish  parents,  at  Dusseldorf. 
'  *  How  old  are  you  ?  ' '  says  a  personage  to  him  in 
one  of  his  works.  "  Signora,  I  was  born  on  the 
morning  of  New  Year's  day,  1800."  "  I  have 
always  told  you,"  said  the  marchese,  "  that  he  was 
one  of  the  first  men  of  the  century."  The  Heine 
family  came  from  Biickeburg,  a  little  principality 
between  Hanover  and  Hamburg,  whose  insignifi- 
cance Heine  merrily  hits  off  as  follows : 

O  Danton,  thou  must  for  thine  error  atone ; 

Thou  art  not  one  of  the  true  souls ; 
For  a  man  can  carry  his  fatherland 

Along  with  him  on  his  shoe-soles.1 


1  It  was  a  saying  of  Danton  that  "  a  man  cannot  carry  his  country 
on  the  soles  of  his  feet." 


HEINRICH  HEINE.  511 

Of  Biickeburg's  principality 

Full  half  on  my  boots  I  carried. 
Such  muddy  roads  I've  never  beheld 

Since  here  in  the  world  I  've  tarried.1 

His  father  seems  to  have  been  a  sordid,  trading 
Jew ;  his  mother  however  was  of  quick,  impas- 
sioned, energetic  nature,  with  much  taste  in  litera- 
ture, art,  and  music.  To  her  the  son  often  makes 
allusion,  and  his  attachment  to  her,  "  the  old  lady  of 
the  Damm-thor," — the  name  of  the  Hamburg  gate 
near  which  she  lived,  —  is  a  redeeming  trait  in  a 
character  in  which  there  is  more  to  blame  than  ad- 
mire. During  his  boyhood  in  Diisseldorf  he  was  a 
perfect  type  of  the  gamin,  full  of  wit  and  mischief 
as  an  imp,  —  a  black-eyed,  black-locked,  elf-like 
little  Jew,  of  unconquerable  vivacity,  whose  Puck- 
like  pranks  kept  the  neighborhood  alive,  sometimes 
with  amusement,  sometimes  with  vexation.  His 
poems  preserve  many  childish  reminiscences,  but 
not  in  a  more  interesting  way  than  his  prose,  in 
which  he  was  not  le>~s  a  master.  Of  such  recollec- 
tions, which  it  is  interesting  to  compare  with  the 
"  Dichtungund  Wahrheit"  of  Gothe,  none  are  more 
interesting  than  those  connected  with  the  occupation 
of  his  native  town  by  the  French,  portraying  historic 
figures  and  the  minute  incidents  of  an  interesting 
time  with  unexampled  vividness.  Whatever  may  be 
said  of  the  effect  of  the  Napoleonic  occupation  of 
Germany  upon  the  Germans  themselves,  for  the 
oppressed  Jews  it  was  a  glorious  deliverance  from 


Deutschland,  ein  "Wintermarchen. 


512  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

the  thraldom  of  ages.  Heine's  descriptions  naturally 
are  full  of  enthusiasm  for  those  blessing-bringing 
conquerers.  Perhaps  at  the  present  time  it  is 
healthful  to  read  them,  when  the  Germans  seek  to 
Justify  the  hard  measure  they  have  meted  out  to 
their  western  neighbors  by  painting,  with  the 
strongest  colors  the  calamities  which,  in  the  past, 
their  land  has  suffered  at  French  hands.  For  the 
Jews,  Napoleon,  at  his  coming,  lifted  a  terrible 
yoke,  which  at  his  downfall  in  1815  was  again 
fastened  to  their  necks,  not  to  be  removed  until  the 
uprising  of  1848. 

When  Heine  was  nineteen  he  was  sent  by  his 
father  to  Frankfort  to  learn  business.  Waterloo 
had  come  four  years  before,  and  in  the  restored 
order  the  Jews  were  thrust  back  into  the  old  condi- 
tion. As  one  passes  through  the  Juden-gasse,  it  is 
perhaps  the  most  interesting  reminiscence  that  can 
be  recalled  that  there,  in  the  noisome  lanes,  moved 
the  figure  of  the  young  poet,  hearing  with  his  fel- 
lows, at  the  stroke  of  the  hour,  the  bolting  of  the 
harsh  gates. 

Soon  after  we  find  him  in  Hamburg,  where  his 
uncle,  Solomon  Heine,  was  the  money-king  of  the 
great  commercial  city.  In  the  history  of  Hamburg 
the  name  of  Solomon  Heine  is  one  of  the  most  im- 
portant. Its  prosperity  is  largely  due  to  his  enter- 
prise, and  at  the  same  time,  like  many  another  of 
his  race,  he  was  distinguished  for  his  benefactions, 
in  which  he  showed  the  broadest  charity.  He  seems 
to  have  been  a  man  honorable  and  well-meaning  in 
all  his  relations.  He  had  children  of  his  own,  many 


HEINRICH  HEINE.  513 

nephews  and  nieces,  and  more  distant  relatives,  and 
appears  to  have  tried,  with  much  painstaking,  to  do 
his  full  duty  to  his  family,  as  well  as  the  world  at 
large.  His  treatment  of  his  nephew  Heinrich  has 
been  called  harsh,  but  it  is  easy  to  see  there  is  a  side 
to  the  story  which  partial  biographers  do  not  pre- 
sent. The  old  banker  had  no  taste  for  literature, 
and  when  Heinrich  appeared  in  his  counting-room, 
behaving  with  more  than  the  characteristic  eccentric- 
ity of  genius,  he  seemed  to  his  uncle  as  unpromising 
among  his  numerous  brood  of  fledglings  as  the 
ugly  duck  of  the  famous  story  of  Andersen.  During 
his  entire  life  Heinrich  received  from  the  bounty  of 
his  uncle,  and  was  remembered  in  his  will.  The 
gifts,  to  be  sure,  were  moderate  in  amount,  but  per- 
haps that  fact  should  be  taken  as  a  proof  of  Solomon 
Heine' s  wisdom.  His  nephew  became  indeed  the  first 
poet  of  his  time,  —  "the  greatest  name  in  German 
literature  since  the  death  of  Gothe."  1  During  the 
greater  part  of  his  life  however  he  was  under  ban 
in  his  native  land,  forced  to  live  in  a  foreign  city, 
his  writings  circulating  surreptitiously,  or,  if  per- 
mitted, subjected  first  to  a  rigorous  censorship.  As 
will  be  seen,  the  ruling  powers  did  no  strange  thing 
in  treating  him  with  severity;  they  only  acted  in 
self-protection.  A  portion  of  his  work  indeed,  aside 
from  its  political  bearing,  was  actually  immoral ;  nor 
was  his  life  ever  of  a  kind  to  satisfy  those  who  held 
at  all  to  propriety.  Heinrich' s  relatives,  who  had 
expectations  as  regarded  Solomon's  wealth,  treated 


1  Matthew  Arnold. 

33 


514  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

him  with  much  disfavor,  leaving  no  stone  unturned 
to  set  his  uncle  against  him.  They  seem  to  have 
acted  from  the  meanest  motives ;  while  hypocriti- 
cally pretending  disapproval,  hoping  to  swell  their 
own  portions  by  diminishing  what  might  be  given  to 
another.  The  uncle's  position  was  one  of  great  dif- 
ficulty ;  a  man  without  capacity  or  accomplishments 
to  judge  himself  of  his  nephew's  genius,  disapprov- 
ing moreover,  to  a  large  extent,  of  his  writings  and 
conduct,  apparently  anxious  to  do  his  duty,  per- 
haps it  may  be  said  he  did  all  that  could  be  ex- 
pected. 

Convinced  at  last  that  a  business  career  was  out 
of  the  question  for  the  nephew,  the  uncle  offered  to 
pay  his  expenses  during  a  university  course.  We 
find  Heine  therefore,  at  twenty,  going  first  to  Bonn, 
then  to  Gottingen,  with  the  idea  of  preparing  himself 
to  become  an  advocate.  Even  before  this  time  he 
had  been  the  victim  of  an  unfortunate  love  affair, 
the  lady  being  his  cousin,  who  seems  to  have  treated 
him  heartlessly.  Heine  revenged  himself  by  paint- 
ing her  portrait,  under  different  names,  in  poems, 
showing  first,  in  connection  with  this  experience, 
that  faculty  for  bitter  speech  for  which  he  was  to 
become  so  famous.  It  is  pleasant  to  contrast  with 
these  the  spirit  of  sonnets  addressed  about  the  same 
time  to  his  mother.  "Love,"  he  says  in  one  of 
them,  "I  sought  in  every  street;  for  love  I 
stretched  out  my  hands  and  begged  at  every  door." 
He  describes  further  his  effort  to  find  love,  declar- 
ing that  he  returned  home,  sad  and  weary,  to  find 
at  last  in  the  eyes  of  his  mother  the  sweet  love 


HE  IN  RICH  HEINE.  515 

that  was  denied  him  everywhere  else.  At  Bonn  and 
Gottingen  Heine  became  associated  with  men  after- 
wards distinguished,  with  many  of  whom,  later  in 
life,  he  came  to  stand  in  relations  sometimes  of 
friendship  but  more  often  of  hostility.  The  study 
of  law  was  repulsive  to  him  ;  he  pursued  however 
literature  and  history  diligently,  occasionally  com- 
posing poems.  Some  breach  of  rules  at  Gottingen 
brought  about  his  rustication,  and  he  went  to  Ber- 
lin, coming  here  under  the  influence  of  Hegel,  then 
the  ruling  spirit  in  philosophy,  by  whom  he  was 
transitorily  affected.  "  To  speak  fairly,"  he  says, 
"I  seldom  understood  him;  and  only  at  last  by 
subsequent  reflection  did  I  arrive  at  an  understand- 
ing of  his  words.  I  believe  he  did  not  desire  to  be 
understood,  and  hence  his  involved  fashion  of  expo- 
sition ;  hence  too  perhaps  his  preference  for  persons 
who  he  knew  could  not  understand  him."  l 

But  perhaps  the  circumstance  of  his  Berlin  life 
most  important  in  its  effect  upon  Heine  was  the  inti- 
macy to  which  he  was  admitted  by  Varnhagen  von 
Ense  and  his  wife,  Rah  el,  people  of  elegant  culture 
and  brilliant  gifts,  whose  salon  fills  almost  the  place 
in  the  literary  history  of  Germany  that  is  filled  by 
the  Hotel  Rambouillet  in  that  of  France.  The 
friendship  of  Heine  for  Varnhagen  was  one  of  his 
most  permanent  affections.  Heine  was  contribut- 
ing now  to  literary  periodicals,  and  attracting  much 
notice.  It  is  creditable  to  him  that  at  this  time 
he  admired  Lessing  ardently.  "  I  am  awe-struck," 


Quoted  in  Stigand's  Life  of  Heine. 


516  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

he  cried  once,  in  Unter  den  Linden,  "  when  I  think 
that  Lessing  may  have  stood  here."  He  saw  much 
of  the  life  of  the  city,  which  he  described  in  a 
graphic,  racy  way,  beginning  to  lay  the  foundation 
of  his  fame  as  a  writer  of  brilliant  prose,  —  a  fame 
which  was  to  equal  that  which  he  gained  as  a  poet. 

Heine  received  his  degree  of  Doctor  in  1825, 
shortly  before  which  time  he  published  in  book 
form  a  collection  of  his  poems,  which  in  this  way 
were  widely  circulated.  Though  the  power  of  the 
singer  is  not  yet  at  the  full,  the  collection  contained 
exquisite  pieces.  The  influence  of  Romanticism  is 
plainly  to  be  seen.  The  poems  are  in  great  part 
pervaded  by  the  melancholy  coming  from  unre- 
quited love,  a  mood  into  which  the  poet  seems  to 
have  been  brought  through  his  unhappy  passion  for 
his  cousin.  His  conception  of  love  is  far  enough 
from  being  the  highest,  and  sometimes  a  bold,  cyn- 
ical defiance  of  propriety  appears,  which  grew  upon 
him  as  he  went  forward. 

Though  Heine  was  winning  fame,  he  did  not  yet 
give  himself  to  literature.  He  hoped  for  a  govern- 
ment position  or  a  university  professorship,  for 
either  of  which  the  abjuration  of  the  faith  of  his 
ancestors  was  necessary.  This  was  resolved  upon, 
and  he  was  baptized  into  the  Lutheran  Church. 
The  change  was  made  purely  from  motives  of  expe- 
diency, his  convictions  having  nothing  to  do  with 
it.  He  .had  no  faith  in  the  doctrines  of  the  church 
into  which  he  was  received.  With  the  narrow 
spirit  of  Judaism  which  he  left  he  had  never  had 
sympathy,  though  in  his  attachment  to  his  race  he 


HEINRICH  HEINE.  517 

was  a  genuine  Jew,  and  had  associated  intimately 
with  certain  free  minds  among  them  who  wished  to 
take  advantage  of  the  gradually  relaxing  bonds  to 
help  their  fellows  to  breadth  and  intelligence.  The 
apostacy  was  far  from  praiseworthy,  though  Heine 
should  not  be  blamed  too  sharply.  Such  abjura- 
tions were  common,  and  regarded  by  many  Jews  as 
venial.  In  a  measure  they  were  forced  into  the 
false  profession,  since  only  so  did  a  career  become 
possible.  For  years  after,  Heine's  mind  was  ill 
at  ease  on  this  account,  as  appears  from  many  pas- 
sages of  his  letters.  "  I  will  be  a  Japanese,"  he 
writes  ;  "  they  hate  nothing  so  much  as  the  cross. 
I  will  be  a  Japanese."  The  advantage  he  sought 
he  did  not  gain  ;  his  position  became  more  uncom- 
fortable than  before.  The  stricter  Jews  looked 
upon  him  as  a  renegade  ;  the  contempt  felt  toward 
him  by  narrow  Christians  was  not  affected  by  his 
change.  As  if  to  show  he  was  still  a  Jew  at  heart, 
he  undertook  at  this  time  a  novel,  the  "  Rabbi  of 
Bacharach," — a  picture  left  incomplete,  but  full  of 
moving  traits  of  the  sorrow  of  the  past. 

How  moving  too  is  the  following :  ' '  When  I 
saw  « The  Merchant  of  Venice  '  given  at  Drury 
Lane,  there  stood  behind  me  a  beautiful,  pale  Eng- 
lish lady,  MTho  at  the  end  of  the  fourth  act  wept 
earnestly,  and  cried  out  several  times,  '  The  poor 
man  is  wronged  ! '  It  was  a  face  of  the  noblest 
Grecian  cast,  and  the  eyes  were  large  and  black.  I 
have  never  been  able  to  forget  them,  those  great 
black  eyes  which  wept  for  Shylock.  Truly,  with  the 
exception  of  Portia,  Shylock  is  the  most  respectable 


518  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

personage  in  the  whole  play.  He  loves  money,  to 
be  sure,  but  there  are  things  which  he  loves  far  more, 
among  others,  his 'daughter,  'Jessica,  my  child.' 
Although  he,  in  his  deep  passion,  curses  her,  and 
would  like  to  see  her  lying  dead  at  his  feet,  with  the 
jewels  in  her  ears,  with  the  ducats  in  her  coffin,  yet 
he  loves  her  more  than  all  the  ducats  and  jewels. 
The  domestic  affections  appear  in  him  most  touch- 
ingly.  Far  more  than  all  historic  personalities  does 
one  remember,  in  Venice,  Shakespeare's  Shylock. 
If  you  go  over  the  Rialto,  your  eye  seeks  him  every- 
where, and  you  think  he  must  be  concealed  there 
behind  some  pillar  or  other,  with  his  Jewish  gaber- 
dine, with  his  mistrustful,  calculating  face,  and  you 
think  you  hear  even  his  grating  voice,  *  Three  thou- 
sand ducats  ;  well.'  I  at  least,  wandering  dreamer 
as  I  am,  looked  everywhere  on  the  Rialto  to  see 
whether  I  could  find  Shylock.  Seeing  him  nowhere, 
I  determined  to  seek  him  in  the  synagogue.  The 
Jews  were  just  celebrating  here  their  holy  day  of 
reconciliation,  and  stood  wrapped  in  their  white 
robes,  with  uncanny  bowings  of  their  heads,  appear- 
ing almost  like  an  assembly  of  ghosts.  But,  although 
I  looked  everywhere,  I  could  not  behold  the  coun- 
tenance of  Shylock.  And  yet  it  seemed  to  me  as 
if  he  stood  concealed  there,  behind  one  of  those 
white  robes,  praying  more  fervently  than  the  rest  of 
his  fellow-believers,  with  tempestuous  wildness  even, 
at  the  throne  of  Jehovah.  I  saw  him  not !  But  to- 
ward evening,  when,  according  to  the  belief  of  the 
Jews,  the  gates  of  Heaven  are  shut,  and  no  prayer 
finds  admission,  I  heard  a  voice  in  which  the  tears 


HEINRICH  HEINE.  519 

were  trickling  as  they  were  never  wept  with  eyes. 
It  was  a  sobbing  which  might  move  a  stone  to  pity  ! 
They  were  tones  of  pain,  such  as  could  come  only 
from  a  breast  which  held,  shut  up  within  itself,  all 
the  martyrdom  which  a  tortured  race  has  endured 
for  eighteen  hundred  years.  It  was  the  panting  of 
a  soul  which  sinks  down,  tired  to  death,  before  the 
gates  of  Heaven.  And  this  voice  seemed  well 
known  to  me.  I  felt  as  if  I  had  heard  it  once, 
when  it  lamented  in  such  despair,  '  Jessica,  my 
child.'"1 

In  this  peried  of  his  life  Heine  strikes  into  that 
mocking  vein  of  writing  which  he  preserved  so  con- 
stantly afterwards  that  his  biographer  declares  there 
is  no  piece  of  his  prose,  excepting  his  will,  which 
does  not  somewhere  show  it.  He  never  suffered  so 
intensely  that  he  could  not  employ  this  inimitable 
raillery ;  no  themes  were  so  grave  as  to  make  it 
seem  to  him  inappropriate.  Leaving  Gottingen  for 
a  journey  in  the  Harz,  he  laughs  mercilessly  at  his  old 
associates :  "  I  have  especial  fault  to  find  that  the 
conception  has  not  been  sufficiently  refuted  that  the 
ladies  of  Gottingen  have  large  feet.  Yes,  I  have  bus- 
ied myself  from  year's  end  to  year's  end  with  the  ear- 
nest confutation  of  this  opinion  ;  and  I  have  to  this 
end  attended  lectures  on  comparative  anatomy,  made 
extracts  from  the  rarest  works  in  the  library, 
studied  for  hours  at  a  time  the  feet  of  the  ladies 
who  pass  over  the  Weender  Strasse  ;  and  in  the  pro- 
found treatise  which  shall  contain  the  results  of 


Shakespeare's  Madchen  und  Frauen  —  Jessica  and  Portia. 


520  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

these  studies  I  speak  (1)  of  feet  generally;  (2)  of 
the  feet  of  the  ancients  ;  (3)  of  the  feet  of  elephants  ; 
(4)  of  the  feet  of  the  ladies  of  Gottingen ;  (5)  I 
collect  together  all  the  remarks  I  have  heard  about 
these  feet  in  Ullrich's  garden;  (6)  I  regard  these 
feet  in  relation  to  their  proper  bodies  ;  (  7 )  if  I  can 
get  paper  of  sufficient  size,  I  will  add  thereto  some 
copper-plate  engravings,  with  portraits,  life-size,  of 
the  ladies'  feet  of  Gottingen."  Again:  "In  front 
of  the  Weender  gate  two  little  school-boys  met  me, 
one  of  whom  said  to  the  other,  « I  will  not  walk  with 
Theodore  any  more  ;  he  is  a  low  fellow,  for  yester- 
day he  did  not  know  the  genitive  of  mensa.'  '  A 
hit  at  the  pedantry  of  the  town.1  There  is  much 
however  that  is  severer  in  his  sarcasm.  For  Got- 
tingen he  seemed  to  have  an  especial  hatred,  and  we 
cannot  wonder  that  his  old  teachers  and  the  people 
of  the  town  felt  incensed. 

We  cannot  go  with  him  step  by  step.  He  has 
arrived  at  fame.  A  multitude  of  readers  follow  his 
pen  with  delight.  His  songs  are  everywhere  sung ; 
his  witty  and  graphic  prose  commends  itself  no  less. 
His  nonchalant  irreverence,  which  not  infrequently 
runs  into  insolence  and  blasphemy  ;  his  disregard  of 
proprieties  ;  his  outspoken  scorn  of  the  powers  that 
rule,  bring  down  upon  him,  not  unnaturally,  fierce 
persecution.  He  travels  in  various  directions,  his 
sparkling  record  keeping  pace  with  his  steps.  For 
a  time  he  is  in  England,  a  country  which  he  hated. 

"  I  know  a  good  Hamburg  Christian  who  could 


1  Die  Harz-reise. 


HEINRICH  HEINE.  521 

never  be  satisfied  that  our  Lord  and  Saviour  was  by 
birth  a  Jew.  A  deep  wrath  seized  him  every  time 
it  came  to  him  that  the  being  who,  as  a  model  of 
perfection,  deserves  the  highest  admiration,  belonged 
nevertheless  to  the  company  of  those  long-nosed 
gentry  whom  he  sees,  as  old-clothes  men,  peddling 
about  the  streets,  whom  he  so  thoroughly  despises, 
and  who  are  the  more  unpleasant  to  him  since  they, 
like  him,  deal  in  groceries  and  dye-stuffs,  and  so  in- 
jure his  private  interests. 

"As  this  excellent  son  of  Hammonia  feels  about 
Jesus  Christ,  I  feel  about  William  Shakespeare.  My 
spirit  faints  when  I  consider  that  he  was  an  Eng- 
lishman, and  belongs  to  the  most  repulsive  people 
whom  God  in  his  wrath  has  created.  What  a  dis- 
gusting people  !  What  an  unrefreshing  country  ! 
How  stiff,  how  cockneyish,  how  selfish,  how  narrow, 
how  English  !  A  land  which  the  ocean  would  have 
gulped  down  long  ago,  if  it  had  not  been  afraid  that 
it  would  make  him  sick  at  the  stomach.  A  gray, 
yawning  monster  of  a  nation,  whose  breath  is  noth- 
ing but  choke-damp  and  mortal  tediousness,  and 
which  will  certainly  hang  itself  in  the  end  with  a 
colossal  ship's  hawser."  l 

Again,  he  is  in  Bavaria, —  in  Munich,  —  which 
Ludwig  II.  is  trying  to  make  the  centre  of  art  and 
cultivation  for  Germany.  "  That  the  town  should  be 
called  a  '  New  Athens  '  is  somewhat  ridiculous.  This 
I  felt  most  deeply  in  my  conversation  with  the  Berlin 
Philistine  who,  although  he  had  been  talking  with 


Preface  to  Shakespeare's  Madchen  und  Frauen. 


522  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

me  some  time,  was  impolite  enough  to  miss  all  Attic 
salt  in  this  New  Athens.  '  That/  cried  he,  *  is  only 
to  be  found  in  Berlin.  There  only  are  wit  and  irony. 
Here  there  is  good  white  beer,  but  truly  no  irony.' 
«  We  have  no  irony,'  cried  Nannerl,  the  tall  wait- 
ress, who  came  skipping  by  at  this  time  ;  «  but  you 
can  have  every  other  kind  of  beer.'  I  began  to  in- 
struct her  in  the  following  manner :  '  Nannerl, 
irony  is  not  beer,  but  an  invention  of  the  Berliners, 
the  most  knowing  people  on  the  face  of  the  earth, 
who  are  vexed  that  they  have  come  too  late  into  the 
world  to  invent  gunpowder,  and  who  therefore 
sought  to  establish  an  invention  which  should  be 
equally  important,  and  even  be  useful  for  those  who 
have  not  invented  gunpowder.'  'Allow  me,'  said 
the  Berliner,  '  to  interrupt  you.  What  white,  shaggy 
dog  is  that,  without  a  tail  ?  '  '  My  dear  sir,  that  is 
the  dog  of  the  new  Alcibiades.'  'But,'  said  the 
Berliner,  «  where  is  the  new  Alcibiades  himself? ' 
'  To  confess  honestly,'  I  answered,  « the  place  is  not 
yet  filled  up  ;  we  have  however  got  the  dog.  Only 
the  lowest  grades  are  occupied ;  we  have  no  lack  of 
owls,  sycophants,  and  Phrynes.'  "  l 

He  goes  to  Italy  through  Tyrol.  "  The  Tyrolese 
are  handsome,  cheerful,  honorable,  brave,  and  un- 
fathomably  stupid.  They  are  a  healthy  race,  perhaps 
because  they  are  too  stupid  to  be  able  to  be  sick. 
Of  politics  the  Tyrolese  know  nothing  but  that  they 
have  a  kaiser,  who  wears  a  white  coat  and  red 
breeches.  So  much  their  old  uncle  told  them,  who 

1  Eeise  von  Miinchen  nach  Genua. 


HEINRICH  HEINE.  523 

heard  it  himself,  in  Innsbruck,  from  the  black  Sep- 
perl,  who  has  been  in  Vienna.  When  now  the 
patriots  clambered  up  to  them,  and  expounded  to 
them  fluently  that  they  had  now  got  a  prince  who 
wore  a  blue  coat  and  white  breeches  (Napoleon), 
then  they  seized  their  rifles,  kissed  wife  and  child, 
descended  from  the  mountains,  and  got  themselves 
shot  for  the  white  coat  and  dear  old  red  breeches." 1 
Heine  at  length  reaches  Paris,  an  exile  from  Ger- 
many, where  the  governments  had  become  so  in- 
censed against  him  as  to  make  him  an  outlaw. 
Henceforth  the  city  is  his  home.  He  is  constantly 
busy  with  writing,  does  much  as  a  critic  of  art  and 
literature,  much  in  the  field  of  politics.  His  poems 
are  numberless ;  sometimes  simple  and  sweet 
throughout  as  an  outgush  from  the  heart  of  the 
most  innocent  of  children ;  sometimes  with  an  un- 
canny or  diabolic  suggestion  thrown  in  at  the  end, 
as  the  red  mouse  at  length  runs  out  of  the  mouth 
of  the  beauty  with  whom  Faust  dances  in  the  Wal- 
purgis-nacht ;  sometimes  again  full  of  a  very  vit- 
riol of  acrid  denunciation.  He  wrote  much  upon 
German  topics  for  French  readers,  and,  in  spite  of 
his  outlawry,  keeps  himself  before  the  German  world 
by  contributions  to  journals  of  position.  He  be- 
comes interested  in  the  religious  and  social  doctrines 
of  Saint  Simon.  His  life  is  far  from  commendable, 
but  he  becomes  at  length  the 'subject  of  a  sincere 
attachment.  His  loved  one  is  a  grisette,  a  woman 
quite  without  education,  or  the  power  of  appreci- 


1  Eeise  von  Munchen  nach  Genua. 


524  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

ating  her  lover's  gifts.  "People  say,"  she  said, 
"that  Heine  is  a  very  clever  man,  and  writes  very 
fine  books  ;  but  I  know  nothing  about  it,  and  must 
content  myself  with  trusting  to  their  word."  She 
was  however  a  woman  of  excellent  heart,  a  faithful 
lover,  helper,  and  companion  of  the  man  who  chose 
her.  For  years  their  connection  had  not  the  sanc- 
tion of  marriage.  When  however  he  was  about  to 
risk  his  life  in  a  duel,  they  were  formally  united  to 
one  another  in  the  Church  of  Saint  Sulpice,  Heine 
wishing  to  do  all  he  could  to  make  her  position  com- 
fortable if  he  should  be  slain.  During  the  years 
that  followed  their  love  deepened,  and  perhaps  it 
may  be  said  that  in  Heine's  entire  career  there  is 
nothing  so  creditable  as  his  unwavering  affection  and 
care  for  his  "  Nonotte." 

Thcophile  Gautier  thus  describes  him  :  "A  hand- 
some man  of  thirty-five  or  thirty-six  years  of  age, 
with  the  appearance  of  robust  health.  To  look  at 
his  lofty  white  forehead,  pure  as  a  marble  tablet, 
and  overhung  by  abundant  masses  of  blond  hair, 
one  would  have  said  he  was  a  German  Apollo.  His 
blue  eyes  sparkled  with  light  and  inspiration ;  his 
round,  full  cheeks  were  of  an  elegant  mould.  Ver- 
meil roses  bloomed  there  in  classic  style  ;  a  slight 
Hebraic  curve  baulked  the  intention  of  his  nose  to  be 
Greek,  without  disfiguring  its  purity  of  line  ;  his  har- 
monious lips  went  together  like  two  fine  rhymes, — 
to  use  one  of  his  own  phrases,  —  and  had  in  repose 
a  charming  expression.  But  when  he. spoke,  from 
their  crimson  bow  there  sprung  and  whizzed  pointed 
and  barbed  arrows  and  sarcastic  darts  which  never 


HEINRICH  HEINE.  525 

missed  their  aim  ;  for  never  was  a  man  more  relent- 
less against  stupidity ;  to  the  divine  smile  of  Apollo 
succeeded  the  sneer  of  the  satyr."  l 

The  story  of  the  last  years  of  Heinrich  Heine  is 
one  of  unparalleled  sadness.  He  was  attacked  with 
a  terrible  disease  —  the  softening  of  the  spinal  mar- 
row ;  it  stretched  him  upon  his  bed,  where  he 
lingered  eight  years,  enduring  great  agony.  His 
body  was,  to  a  large  extent,  at  length  paralyzed. 
The  sight  of  one  eye  was  gone  ;  he  could  see  from 
the  other  only  by  lifting  with  his  fingers  the  paralyzed 
lid.  He  wore  out  the  weary  years  on  his  "mat- 
tress-grave," as  he  called  it,  nursed  by  his  devoted 
wife.  Propped  up  on  pillows,  he  sometimes  caught 
distant  views  of  the  street,  where  he  envied  the 
very  dogs  their  liberty.  The  terrible  chastening 
brought  no  softening  to  his  spirit.  It  is  a  dark  life 
almost  everywhere ;  but  as  he  lay  stretched  upon 
his  "  mattress-grave,"  there  was  a  bitterness  in  his 
mocking,  an  audacity  in  his  blasphemies,  which  the 
wildest  declarations  of  his  preceding  years  had  not 
possessed.  Yet  through  all  he  loved  his  wife,  he 
loved  the  old  lady  of  the  Damm-thor,  from  whom 
he  took  the  greatest  pains  to  conceal  his  condition, 
lest  she  might  be  distressed.  No  meanings  from  an 
^Eolian  harp  were  ever  sweeter  than  the  utterances 
which  occasionally  came  as  the  tempestuous  agony 
swept  down  upon  him.  We  see  too  a  better  side 
in  his  will :  "  I  die  in  the  belief  of  one  only  God, 
the  eternal  creator  of  the  world,  whose  pity  I  im- 

1  Stigand. 


526  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

plore  for  my  immortal  soul.  I  lament  that  I  have 
sometimes  spoken  of  sacred  things  without  due  rev- 
erence, but  I  was  carried  away  more  by  the  spirit  of 
my  time  than  by  my  own  inclinations.  If  I  have 
unwittingly  violated  good  manners  and  morality,  I 
pray  both  God  and  man  for  pardon."  At  length 
came  February  16,  1856.  A  friend,  bending  over 
him,  asked  him  if  he  were  on  good  terms  with  God. 
"  Set  your  mind  at  rest,"  eaid  Heine.  "  Dieu  me 
pardonnera;  c'est  son  metier.''  So,  with  a  devil- 
may-care  mock  upon  his  lips,  the  child  of  the  Jew, 
in  whom  the  spirit  of  the  race,  cruelly  hounded 
through  -so  many  slow-moving  centuries,  at  length 
found  utterance  for  its  sorrow,  its  yearnings,  its 
agony,  its  implacable  spite,  went  forth  to  his  ac- 
count. 

That  Heine  was  the  most  unaccountable  of  men 
will  hardly  need  further  illustration.  In  one  breath 
he  writes  the  **  Pilgrimage  to  Kevlaar,"  a  poem 
which  one  would  say  must  have  come  from  the  heart 
of  an  artless,  ignorant  peasant,  full  of  unquestion- 
ing Catholic  piety ;  in  another  it  is  the  grotesque 
satire  "  Atta  Troll,"  in  the  course  of  which  the 
conception  entertained  by  pious  hearts  of  Heaven 
and  its  denizens  is  burlesqued  with  unshrinking 
Mephistophelean  daring.  Here  is  his  own  descrip- 
tion of  a  character  full  of  contradictions,  which 
might  answer  for  himself:  "  There  are  hearts 
wherein  jest  and  earnest,  evil  and  good,  glow  and 
coldness,  are  so  strangely  united  that  it  becomes 
difficult  to  judge  them.  Such  a  heart  swam  in  Ma- 


HEINRICH  HEINE.  527 

tilda's  breast.  Many  times  it  was  like  a  freezing 
ice-island,  from  which  bloomed  forth  palm  forests  ; 
many  times  again  it  was  a  glowing  volcano,  which 
is  suddenly  covered  over  by  an  avalanche  of  snow." 1 

The  difficulties  of  rendering  in  Heine's  case  are 
perhaps  quite  insurmountable.  Nothing  was  ever  so 
airy  and  volatile  as  his  wit,  nothing  ever  so  deli- 
cate as  his  sentiment.  In  the  process  of  translation 
the  aroma  half  exhales  ;  what,  as  Heine  has  distilled 
it,  is  most  searchingly  pungent,  is  insipid  in  a 
foreign  phrase  ;  what  causes  tears,  as  it  flows  on  in 
the  German  rhythm  in  pathetic,  childlike  artless- 
ness,  in  English  words  sinks  to  commonplace.  Let 
us  however  attempt  it.  There  has  not  lived  in  our 
time  such  a  master  of  brilliant,  graphic  description. 
Here  is  a  passage  from  his  child-life  at  Diisseldorf, 
which  I  quote  from  the  "  Book  Le  Grand."  The 
book  is  named  from  an  old  drummer,  who  fills  the 
boy  with  Napoleonic  inspirations  : 

* '  The  drumming  went  on  in  the  street ;  I  went  out 
before  the  door  and  beheld  the  French  troops,  who 
were  marching  in, — the  rejoicing  people  of  glory, 
who  went  through  the  world  singing  and  making 
merry  ;  the  faces  of  the  grenadiers,  so  earnestly  cheer- 
ful ;  the  bear-skin  caps,  the  tricolored  cockades,  the 
gleaming  bayonets,  the  infantry  full  of  jollity  and 
point  d'honneur,  and  the  almighty,  great,  silver- 
embroidered  drum-major,  who  could  throw  his  stick 
with  the  gilded  knob  up  to  the  first  story,  and  his 
eyes  even  to  the  second,  where  the  pretty  girls  were 


1  Die  Bader  von  Lukka. 


528  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

sitting  at  the  windows."  *  *  *  "  The  neighbor's 
boy,  Fitter,  and  long  Kurz  almost  broke  their  necks 
at  this  time,  and  it  would  have  been  well ;  for  one  ran 
away  afterwards  from  his  parents,  enlisted,  deserted, 
and  was  shot  dead  in  Mainz ;  the  other  made  after- 
wards geographical  explorations  in  strange  pockets, 
became  therefore  a  working  member  of  a  public 
spinning  institution,  burst  the  iron  bonds  which 
bound  him  to  this  and  his  fatherland,  got  happily 
across  the  water,  and  died  in  London  of  too  tight  a 
cravat,  which  contracted  of  itself  when  a  royal  offi- 
cial took  the  board  away  from  under  his  feet." 

Five  years  after  Heine  saw  Napoleon  himself.  ' '  It 
was  in  the  alley  of  the  palace-garden  at  Dtisseldorf. 
When  I  pressed  through  the  gaping  crowd  I  thought 
on  his  deeds  and  battles.  The  emperor,  with  his 
suite,  was  riding  through  the  alley ;  the  protecting 
trees  inclined  themselves  forward  as  he  went  past ; 
the  sunbeams  trembled  timidly  curious  through  the 
green  foliage,  and  in  the  blue  sky  above  was  swim- 
ming visibly  a  golden  star.  The  emperor  wore  his 
unpretending  green  uniform,  and  the  little,  world- 
historic  hat.  He  rode  a  white  pony;  negligent, 
almost  hanging,  he  sat,  one  hand  holding  high  the 
reins,  the  other  patting  good-naturedly  the  pony's 
neck.  His  face  had  that  color  which  we  see  in  mar- 
ble heads  of  Greek  and  Roman  sculpture  ;  its  fea- 
tures were  nobly  impressed,  like  those  of  antiques, 
and  on  this  countenance  it  stood  written,  '  Thou 
shalt  have  no  other  gods  before  me.'  A  smile 
which  warmed  and  quieted  every  heart  hovered 
about  the  lips ;  and  yet  we  knew  that  those  lips 


HEINRICH  HEINE.  529 

needed  only  to  whistle,  and  Prussia  would  no  longer 
exist ;  those  lips  needed  only  to  whistle,  and  all  the 
clergy  would  be  rung  out ;  those  lips  needed  only  to 
whistle,  and  the  whole  Holy  Roman  Empire  would 
dance  ;  and  those  lips  smiled,  and  the  eye  too  smiled. 
It  was  an  eye  clear  as  the  heavens  ;  it  could  read  in  the 
heart  of  man  ;  it  saw  with  sudden  quickness  all  the 
things  of  this  world,  while  the  rest  of  us  only  look  at 
one  another,  and  over  colored  shadows.  The  brow 
was  not  so  clear  ;  the  ghosts  of  future  battles  haunted 
it ;  sometimes  it  moved  convulsively,  and  those  were 
the  creating  thoughts.  —  the  great  seven-mile-boots 
thoughts,  —  with  which  the  emperor's  spirit,  invisi- 
ble, strode  over  the  world.  The  emperor  rode  qui- 
etly through  the  alley  ;  behind  him,  proud  on  snort- 
ing horses,  and  loaded  with  gold  and  ornaments,  rode 
his  suite ;  the  drums  rolled,  the  trumpets  sounded, 
and  the  people  cried  with  a  thousand  voices,  *  Long 
live  the  emperor  ! '  ' 

Once  afterwards  Heine  saw  Napoleon,  in  1812, 
previous  to  the  Russian  campaign.  "Never  will 
this  image  disappear  out  of  my  memory.  I  see  him 
even  still,  aloft  upon  his  steed,  with  his  eternal  eyes 
in  his  marble,  imperator  face,  looking  down  quiet  as 
fate  upon  the  guards  defiling  by.  He  sent  them  to 
Russia,  and  the  old  grenadiers  looked  up  to  him 
with  such  awful  devotion,  so  consciously  earnest,  so 
death-proud,  —  Te,  Ccesar,  morituri  salutant." 

I  cannot  help  quoting  still  more. 

"  I  speak  of  the  palace  garden  at  Dusseldorf, 
where  I  often  lay  upon  the  grass,  listening  rever- 
ently when  Monsieur  Le  Grand  told  me  of  the  war- 


530  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

like  deeds  of  the  great  emperor,  and  meantime, 
struck  up  the  marches  which  were  drummed  during 
the  exploits,  so  that  I  saw  and  heard  every  thing 
most  vividly.  I  saw  the  march  over  the  Simplon,  — 
the  emperor  before,  and  behind  the  brave  grenadiers 
climbing,  while  frightened  birds  shriek  and  the 
glaciers  thunder  in  the  distance.  I  saw  the  emperor, 
flag  in  hand,  on  the  bridge  of  Lodi ;  I  saw  the  em- 
peror in  his  gray  cloak  at  Marengo ;  I  saw  him  on 
horseback  in  the  battle  of  the  Pyramids,  —  nothing 
but  powder,  smoke,  and  Mamelukes  ;  I  saw  him  in 
the  battle  of  Austerlitz,  —  phew  !  how  the  balls 
whistled  over  the  smooth,  icy  road  !  I  saw,  I  heard 
the  battles  of  Jena,  Eylau,  Wagram.  I  could  hardly 
bear  it !  M.  Le  Grand  drummed  so  that  my  own 
ear-drum  was  almost  burst." 

For  the  last  time  the  boy  hears  the  old  drummer. 
"  I  heard  behind  me  confused  human  voices,  which 
lamented  the  fate  of  the  poor  French,  who,  taken 
prisoners  in  the  Russian  campaign  and  dragged  to 
Siberia,  had  been  held  there  many  long  years,  al- 
though peace  had  been  declared,  and  not  until  now 
were  returning  home.  When  I  looked  up  I  beheld 
really  these  orphan  children  of  glory.  Through  the 
holes  of  their  ragged  uniforms  looked  naked  misery  ; 
in  their  weather-beaten  faces  lay  deep  lamenting 
eyes,  and  although  mutilated,  wearied,  and  for  the 
most  part  limping,  they  still  maintained  a  kind  of  mil- 
itary step,  and,  strangely  enough  !  a  drummer  with 
his  drum  tottered  on  before.  The  poor  French  drum- 
mer seemed  to  have  risen  half-mouldered  out  of  his 
grave ;  it  was  only  a  little  shadow  in  a  dirty,  rag- 


HE  IN  RICH  HEINE.  531 

ged,  gray  capote  ;  a  corpse-like,  yellowish  face,  with 
a  gray  mustache,  which  drooped  in  a  melancholy 
way  over  the  pallid  lips.  The  eyes  were  like 
burned-out  tinder  in  which  only  a  few  sparks  yet 
glimmer,  and  yet  by  one  of  these  sparks  I  recog- 
nized Monsieur  Le  Grand.  He  recognized  me  too, 
and  drew  me  down  upon  the  grass,  and  there  we 
sat  as  in  old  times,  when  he  taught  me  French  and 
modern  history  on  his  drum.  It  was  the  same  old, 
familiar  drum,  and  I  wondered  how  he  had  kept  it 
from  Russian  rapacity.  He  drummed  now  as  he 
used  to,  only  without  speaking  meantime.  But  if 
his  lips  were  pinched  together  in  an  uncanny  way, 
his  eyes  spoke  all  the  more,  gleaming  victoriously  as 
he  drummed  the  old  marches.  The  poplars  near  us 
trembled  as  he  thundered  once  more  the  red  march 
of  the  guillotine.  The  old  freedom-struggles,  the 
battles,  the  deeds  of  the  emperor,  he  drummed  as 
before,  and  it  seemed  as  if  the  drum  itself  were  a 
living  being,  which  exulted  at  being  able  to  speak 
out  its  inner  joy.  I  heard  once  more  the  thunder 
of  cannon,  the  whistling  of  balls,  the  tumult  of 
battle.  I  saw  once  more  the  guards,  brave  unto 
death ;  the  fluttering  colors,  the  emperor  on  his 
steed.  But  gradually  a  gloomy  tone  crept  into  that 
joyous  rolling ;  out  of  the  drum  resounded  tones 
in  which  the  wildest  exultation  and  the  most  terrible 
lamenting  were  strangely  commingled.  It  seemed 
a  march  of  victory,  and  at  the  same  time  a  march 
of  death.  The  eyes  of  Le  Grand  opened  themselves 
like  those  of  a  ghost,  and  I  saw  therein  nothing  but 
a  broad  white  field  of  ice  covered  with  corpses.  It 


532  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

was  the  battle  of  the  Moskwa.  I  should  never  have 
thought  that  the  old,  hard  drum  could  give  forth 
such  sounds  of  pain  as  M.  Le  Grand  managed  to 
evoke.  They  were  drummed  tears,  which  sounded 
lower  and  lower  ;  deep  sighs  broke  from  Le  Grand's 
breast  like  a  sad  echo.  He  became  gloomier  and 
more  spectral,  his  dry  hands  trembled  with  frost ;  he 
sat  as  in  a  dream,  only  beating  the  air  with  his  drum-' 
sticks,  and  listened  as  it  were  for  distant  voices  ;  at 
last  he  looked  at  me  with  a  look  entreating,  and 
deep,  deep  as  an  abyss  ;  then  his  head  sank  in  death 
upon  his  drum." 

The  description  of  the  cholera  in  1832  is  very  vivid. 
"  We  are  put  into  the  sack  one  after  the  other," 
said  my  servant  to  me  every  morning,  sighing  when 
he  informed  me  of  the  number  of  the  dead,  or  the 
departure  of  an  acquaintance.  The  expression,  '  to 
put  into  the  sack,'  was  no  figure  of  speech ;  there 
was  soon  a  want  of  coffins,  and  the  greater  part  of 
the  dead  were  buried  in  sacks.  When,  last  week,  I 
went  by  a  public  building,  and  in  the  roomy  hall  saw 
the  merry  people,  the  hopping,  cheerful  little 
Frenchmen,  the  pretty,  prattling  Frenchwomen, 
who  were  making  their  purchases  there  with  a  laugh 
and  a  joke,  I  remembered  that  here,  during  the  chol- 
era time,  piled  high  upon  one  another,  stood  many 
hundred  white  sacks  which  contained  nothing  but 
corpses,  and  that  one  heard  here  very  few  voices,  but 
all  the  more  ominous,  —  namely,  how  the  corpse- 
watchers,  with  an  evil  indifference,  counted  out  the 
sacks  to  the  grave-diggers  ;  and  these  again,  while 
they  loaded  them  on  their  carts,  repeated  the  number 


HEINRICH   HEINE.  533 

grumblingly,  or  rudely  complained  aloud,  because 
they  had  received  one  sack  too  little  ;  whereat  not 
seldom  a  strange  quarrel  arose.  I  remember  that 
two  little  boys  with  troubled  faces  stood  beside  me, 
and  one  asked  me  if  I  could  tell  him  in  which  sack 
his  father  was."1 

The  Germans  have  been  accused  of  wanting 
greatly  in  wit  and  humor,2  but  certain  it  is  that  this 
German  Jew,  more  than  any  man  probably  of  the 
present  century  in  the  civilized  world,  possessed 
these  gifts.  We  must  regard  him  as  a  genius  coor- 
dinate with  Aristophanes,  Cervantes,  and  Mon- 
taigne. His  conversation  was  full  of  it,  even  when 
he  lay  in  the  greatest  misery  on  his  "  mattress- 
grave."  He  was  asked  if  he  had.  read  one  of  the 
shorter  pieces  of  a  certain  dull  writer.  "No,"  said 
he  ;  "I  never  read  any  but  the  great  works  of  our 
friend.  I  like  best  his  three,  four,  or  five-volume 
books.  Water  on  a  large  scale  —  a  lake,  a  sea,  an 
ocean  —  is  a  fine  thing,  but  I  can't  endure  water  in 
a  spoon." 

Once,  at  a  time  of  great  distress,  the  physician 
who  was  examining  his  chest  asked,  "Pouvez  vous 
siffler?"  "Helas,  non,"  was  the  reply,  "pas  meme 
les  pieces  de  M.  Scribe." 

In  many  of  his  poems  he  rattles  on  in  the  merri- 
est, most  nonchalant  carelessness,  shooting  out,  now 
and  then,  the  sharpest  darts  of  spite.  Poor  Ger- 
many was  forever  his  butt,  as  in  the  following  : 


1  Die  Cholera  Zeit  in  Paris,  1832. 

2  J.  E.  Lowell,  Essay  on  Lessing.    Matthew  Arnold. 


534  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

From  Cologne,  at  quarter  to  eight  in  the  morn, 

My  journey's  course  I  followed; 
Toward  three  of  the  clock  to  Hagen  we  came, 

And  there  our  dinner  we  swallowed. 

The  table  was  spread,  and  here  I  found 

The  real  old  German  cooking. 
I  greet  thee,  dear  old  "  sauer-kraut," 

"With  thy  delicate  perfume  smoking ! 

Mother's  stuffed  chestnuts  in  cabbage  green! 

They  set  my  heart  in  a  flutter ; 
Codfish  of  my  country,  I  greet  ye  fine, 

As  ye  cunningly  swim  in  your  butter. 

How  the  sausages  revelled  in  sputtering  fat ! 

And  fieldfares,  small  angels  pious, 
All  roasted  and  swaddled  in  apple-sauce, 

Twittered  out  to  me,  "  Try  us !  " 

"Welcome,  countryman,"  twittered  they, 

"To  us  at  length,  reverting; 
How  long,  alas !  in  foreign  parts, 

With  poultry  strange  you've  been  flirting  I " 

A  goose,  a  quiet  and  genial  soul, 

Was  on  the  table  extended ; 
Perhaps  she  loved  me  once,  in  the  days 

Before  our  youth  was  ended. 

She  threw  at  me  such  a  meaning  look ! 

So  trustful,  tender,  and  pensive ; 
Her  soul  was  beautiful,  but  her  meat  — 

Was  tough,  I'm  apprehensive. 

On  a  pewter  plate  a  pig's  head  they  brought; 

And  you  know,  in  the  German  nation, 
It's  the  snouts  of  the  pigs  they  always  select 

For  a  laurel  decoration.1 

What  power   of  scornful  utterance   Heine  pos- 


Deutschland,  ein  Wintermarchen. 


HEINRICH  HEINE.  535 

sessed,  the  potentates  of  Germany  who  persecuted 
him  felt  to  the  uttermost,  —  none  more  than  Fried- 
rich  Wilhelm  IV.  of  Prussia  and  Ludwig  II.  of 
Bavaria.  Both  were  monarchs  possessed  of  intel- 
lectual gifts,  and  with  many  good  purposes.  Each 
however  was,  in  his  own  way,  narrow,  weak,  and 
self-indulgent.  Never  had  archer  such  a  keen  eye 
for  the  joints  in  the  armor  of  his  foes  as  Heine. 
Here  are  some  stanzas  from  "  The  New  Alex- 
ander," directed  against  the  king  of  Prussia. 

There  is  a  king  in  Thule  who  drinks 

Champagne,  — of  that  he's  a  great  lover; 

And  always  when  his  champagne  he  drinks, 
His  eyes  go  running  over. 

His  knights  in  a  circle  about  him  stick,  — 

The  "school  historical"  truly; 
"When  his  tongue,  becomes  with  drinking  thick, 

Then  hiccoughs  the  king  of  Thule : 

"  When  Alexander,  in  the  old  day, 

"With  his  little  bands  unshrinking, 
Had  brought  the  whole  world  under  his  sway. 
The  hero  took  to  drinking. 

The  war  had  given  him  such  a  thirst — 

The  beating  so  many  nations  — 
He  soaked  himself  till  he  nearly  burst; 

He  couldn't  stand  such  potations. 

Now  I,  you  see,  am  of  mightier  stuff; 

More  prudent  in  planning  and  thinking; 
For  I  begin  where  the  hero  left  off,  — 

I  put  at  the  outset  the  drinking. 

The  hero's  course,  if  I  play  the  sot, 

In  the  end  I'll  accomplish  better; 
For  I,  as  I  stagger  from  pot  to  pot, 

Shall  the  whole  creation  fetter. 


536  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

Champagne  invites  me —  "  the  better  land," 
Where  flourish  the  pleasant  juices 

That  fill  me  with  inspiration  grand ; 
The  sorrows  of  life  it  reduces. 

Here  shall  be  proven  my  courage  dread, 
Here  shall  begin  the  battle ; 

Let  such  blood  as  a  bottle  holds  be  shed, 
And  volleys  of  stopples  rattle ! 


I  reconcile  two  divine  extremes : 

My  trust  is  in  the  Lord  Jesus — 
But,  as  comforter,  your  monarch  esteems 

Bacchus,  let  Bacchus  ease  us  !  " 

The  touch  of  blasphemy  in  the  last  stanza  is  thor- 
oughly Heinesque.  I  have  ventured  to  give  it,  even 
at  the  risk  of  shocking  the  sensitive  reader.  No 
portrayal  of  Heine  would  be  truthful  which  should 
omit  that  trait.  The  "  Song1  of  Praise  in  Honor  of 
King  Ludwig,"  however,  few  translators  would  care 
to  present  to  English  readers.  I  give  a  few  stanzas, 
allowing  the  passage  at  the  close  to  remain  in  the 
original.  Its  audacity  and  acrid  malice  can  scarcely 
be  paralleled.  Stupidly  brutal  was  the  heel  that 
sought  to  crush  him  ;  but  the  snake,  writhing  and 
rearing  its  crest,  strikes  with  fangs  so  full  of  devilish 
venom  that  we  are  full  of  pity  for  the  oppressor. 

In  the  "Walhalla,"  the  magnificent  temple  near 
Regensburg,  built  by  Ludwig  to  contain  memorials 
of  the  great  men  of  Germany,  Luther  was  neg- 
lected : 

The  simpleton  Luther  there  to  see, 

In  vain  the  visitor  wishes ; 
As  in  natural-history  cabinets  we 

Oft  find  no  whale  'mong  the  fishes. 


HEINRICH  HEINE.  537 

King  Ludwig  is  a  great  writer  of  lays ; 

When  he  sings,  the  mighty  Apollo 
Falls  down  on  his  knees,  and  begs  and  prays, 

"  O  stop ;  I  shall  soon  be  a  fool,  O ! " 

At  length  the  king  is  represented  as  praying  in 
the  royal  chapel  before  the  image  of  the  Virgin, 
who  bears  the  Christ-child  in  her  arms  ;  he  begs  for 
some  sign  of  her  favor  : 

Straightway  stirs  the  mother  of  God, 

Her  lips  with  a  message  are  moving, 
She  shakes  her  head  with  impatient  nod, 

And  speaks  to  her  infant  loving. 

"Es  ist  ein  Gliick  dass  ich  auf  dem  Arm 
Dich  trage,  und  nicht  mehr  im  Bauche ; 

Ein  Gluck  dass  ich  vor  dem  Vorsehn  * 

Mich  nicht  mehr  zu  fiirchten  brauche. 

"H'atte  ich  in  meiner  Schwangerschaft 

Erblickt  den  hasslichen  Thoren, 
Ich  h'atte  gewiss  einen  Wechselbalg, 

Statt  eines  Gottes  geboren." 

The  brilliant  wit  and  poet  must  be  judged  with 
severity,  however  beneficial  the  scourging  may 
sometimes  have  been  which  he  administered.  No 
further  illustration  is  necessary  that  his  wit  was 
often  distorted  to  cynicism,  his  frivolity  to  insolence 
and  vulgarity.  It  is  hard  to  believe  that  he  was 
earnest  about  anything,  —  art,  patriotism,  religion, 
or  freedom.  In  multitudes  of  passages,  both  prose 
and  poetry,  he  suddenly  interrupts  the  expression 
of  intense  emotion  by  a  grotesque  suggestion  which 
makes  the  emotion  or  its  object  ridiculous.  In  the 
"  Sea  Vision,"  for  instance,  he  represents  himself 


538  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

as  leaning  over  the  side  of  the  ship,  dreaming  that 
he  sees  in  the  clear  depths  the  vision  of  a  city, 
which  he  describes  minutely,  with  melancholy  and 
passionate  touches : 

But  just  at  that  time 

Did  the  ship  captain 

Pull  me  hard  by  the  leg, 

Back  over  the  vessel's  side, 

Saying,  with  horrid  laugh, 

"  Doctor,  has  the  devil  got  you? "  l 

For  Napoleon  one  would  imagine  that  he  felt  the 
most  genuine  and  earnest  enthusiasm  of  his  life. 
The  * '  Book  Le  Grand ' '  contains  a  passage  full  of 
power,  in  which  he  denounces  England  for  her 
treatment  of  the  emperor  at  St.  Helena ;  yet  as  if 
an  actor,  after  giving  the  curse  of  Lear,  should  sud- 
denly thrust  his  tongue  into  his  cheek  and  draw  his 
face  into  a  grimace,  Heine  ends  his  denunciation 
with  a  laughable  turn : 

"  Strange  !  a  terrible  fate  has  already  overtaken 
the  three  principal  opponents  of  the  emperor: 
Londonderry  has  cut  his  throat ;  Louis  XVIII.  has 
rotted  on  his  throne  ;  and  Professor  Saaltield  is  still 
always  professor  at  Gottingen  !  " 

Among  English  writers,  Heine  has  points  of  re- 
semblance with  Sterne,  —  still  more  with  Byron  ; 
but,  to  my  mind,  his  closest  English  analogue  in 
genius  and  character  is  Dean  Swift.  In  Swift's 
career  it  is  perhaps  the  pleasantest  incident  that  he 
could  attract  the  love  of  Stella  and  Vanessa,  and 


1  Siiid  Sie  des  Teufels? 


HEINRICH  HEINE.  539 

feel  for  them  a  friendship  which  perhaps  amounted 
to  love.  In  Heine's  honorable  affection  for  two 
women  —  his  wife,  "  Nonotte,"  and  the  "  old  lady 
of  the  Damm-thor" — we  see  him  at  his  best. 
Both  Heine  and  Swift  were  place-hunters,  who 
sought  for  advancement  in  questionable  ways,  only 
to  be  disappointed ;  for  both  there  was  disease  at  the 
end  that  was  worse  than  death.  Such  gall  and 
wormwood  as  they  could  pour  upon  their  adver- 
saries, what  sinners  elsewhere  have  tasted  !  With 
what  whips  of  scorpions  they  smote  folly  and  vice  ; 
but  who  will  dare  to  say  it  was  through  any  love  of 
virtue  ?  Both  libelled  useful  and  honorable  men  with 
coarse  lampoons  ;  in  both  there  was  too  frequent 
sinking  into  indecency. 

But  there  was  a  field  in  which  the  bitter  dean  had 
no  part  with  the  sufferer  of  the  "  mattress-grave." 
Heine  was  not  altogether  a  scoffer ;  his  power  of 
touching  the  tenderest  sensibilities  is  simply  wonder- 
ful. In  his  plaintive  songs  the  influence  of  Roman- 
ticism can  be  clearly  seen,  and  also  of  the  popular 
ballad,  whose  character  he  caught  most  felicitously. 
He  assumed  a  certain  negligence  which  gave  his 
poems  an  air  of  pure  naturalness  and  immediateness, 
whereas  they  were  the  products  of  consummate  art.1 
But  no  poet  has  ever  been  able  to  convey  more  thor- 
oughly the  impression  of  perfect  artlessness.  The 
"  Princess  Use,"  for  instance,  one  would  say  could 
have  been  written  by  no  other  than  the  most  inno- 
cent of  children : 

1  Kurz. 


540  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

I  am  the  Princess  Use ; 

To  my  castle  come  with  me,  — 
To  the  Ilsenstein,  my  dwelling, 

And  we  will  happy  be. 

Thy  forehead  will  I  moisten, 

From  my  clear  flowing  rill ; 
Thy  griefs  thou  shalt  leave  behind  thee, 

Thou  soul  with  sorrow  so  ill ! 

Upon  my  bosom  snowy, 

Within  my  white  arms'  fold, 
There  shalt  thou  lie  and  dream  a  dream 

Of  the  fairy  lore  of  old. 

I'll  kiss  thee,  and  softly  cherish, 

As  once  I  cherished  and  kissed 
The  dear,  dear  Kaiser  Heinrich, 

So  long  ago  at  rest. 

The  dead  are  dead  forever,  — 

The  living  alone  live  still ; 
And  I  am  blooming  and  beautiful, 

My  heart  doth  laugh  and  thrill. 

O  come  down  into  my  castle,  — 

My  castle  crystal  bright ! 
There  dance  the  knights  and  maidens, 

There  revels  each  servant-wight. 

There  rustle  the  garments  silken, 

There  rattles  the  spur  below ; 
The  dwarfs  drum  and  trumpet  and  fiddle 

And  the  bugle  merrily  blow. 

Tot  my  arm  shall  softly  enclose  thee, 

As  it  Kaiser  Heinrich  enclosed ; 
When  the  trumpets'  music  thundered, 

His  ears  with  my  hands  I  closed. 

It  is  very  pleasant  too  to  read  these  lines  to  his 
wife,  written  on  his  death-bed : 


HEINRICH  HEINE.  541 

I  was,  O  lamb,  as  shepherd  placed, 

To  guard  thee  in  this  earthly  waste. 

To  thee  I  did  refreshment  hring ; 

To  thee  brought  water  from  the  spring. 

When  cold  the  winter  storm  alarmed, 

I  have  thee  in  my  bosom  warmed. 

I  held  thee,  folded,  close  embracing, 

When  torrent  rains  were  rudely  chasing, 

And  woodland  brook  and  hungry  wolf 

Howled,  rivals,  in  the  darksome  gulf. 

Thou  didst  not  fear,  —  thou  hast  not  quivered 

Even  when  the  bolt  of  thunder  shiverered 

The  tallest  pine.    Upon  my  breast, 

In  peace  and  calm  thou  layst  at  rest. 

My  arm  grows  weak.    Lo,  creeping  there, 

Comes  pallid  death !     My  shepherd  care, 

My  herdsman's  office,  now  I  leave. 

Back  to  thy  hands,  O  God,  I  give 

My  staff;  and  now  I  pray  thee  guard 

This  lamb  of  mine,  when  'neath  the  sward 

I  lie ;  and  suffer  not,  I  pray, 

That  thorns  should  pierce  her  on  the  way. 

From  nettles  harsh  protect  her  fleece ; 

From  soiling  marshes  give  release ; 

And  everywhere  her  feet  before 

With  sweet  grass  spread  the  meadows  o'er; 

And  let  her  sleep  from  care  as  blest 

As  once  she  slept  upon  my  breast. 

Once,  at  a  critical  time  in  our  country's  history,  it 
happened  to  me  to  visit  a  negro  school.  We  went 
from  room  to  room  among  the  dusky  faces,  until 
at  last  one  said,  "  Let  us  have  them  sing."  Pres- 
ently the  voices  rose  and  fell  in  a  marvellous  song. 
Out  of  the  windows  the  heavens  hung  sombre  about 
us  ;  the  dark  faces  were  before  us  ;  the  children  of 
the  race  whose  presence  among  us  has  brought  to 
them,  in  each  generation,  tragedy  so  pathetic,  —  the 


542  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

race  that  has  brought  to  us,  so  innocently,  such 
subject  for  controversy,  such  occasion  for  bloodshed, 
and  on  account  of  which  we  still  sometimes  seem  to 
hear  such  fateful  thunder-mutterings  of  approaching 
disaster.  The  news  of  the  morning  had  predisposed 
us  to  gloom ;  the  associations  now  conspired  to 
deepen  it ;  the  strange  melody  which  came  pouring 
forth  seemed  somehow  singularly  in  keeping.  There 
was  in  my  spirit  no  defined  feeling,  but  a  vague 
unrest,  —  at  once  a  foreboding  of  calamity  and 
yearning  after  peace.  It  was  precisely  the  senti- 
ment of  the  song.  The  singers  seemed  to  feel  it ; 
we  who  listened  felt  it,  and  there  were  eyes  whose 
lids  trembled  with  the  coming  tears.  It  was  the 
"  Lorelei"  of  Heine: 

I  cannot  tell  what  it  meaneth, 
That  I  am  so  sad  to-day. 

The  words,  so  simple,  so  infantile  almost  in  sense, 
and  yet  with  which  is  marvellously  bound  such  ten- 
der feeling !  As  one  repeats  the  lines  they  are 
almost  nothing ;  yet  caught  within  them,  like  some 
sad,  sweet-throated  nightingale  within  a  net,  there 
pants  such  a  pathos  !  What  could  have  been  further 
away?  What  cared  we  then  for  the  Rhine,  and  the 
sorceress  who  sings  upon  its  banks,  and  the  boat- 
man engulphed  in  the  whirlpool?  What  knew  or 
cared  the  singers?  But  something  indescribable 
came  pulsing  forth  to  us  from  out  the  words,  and 
I  felt  that  somehow  it  was  the  appropriate  utter- 
ance for  the  mood  in  which  we  found  ourselves  ;  the 
thing  to  hear  from  the  dark-faced  youths  before  us,  — 


HEINRICH   HEINE.  543 

an  undefined  sorrow,  a  foreshadowing  of  danger  all 
unknown  and  vague  !  Mighty  the  poet,  I  thought, 
whose  verse  can  come  home  with  such  power  in 
lands  and  among  races  so  far  away  ! 

The  child  of  the  Jew  he  was,  of  the  race  among 
the  races  of  the  earth  possessed  of  the  most  intense 
passionate  force,  and  in  him  his  people  found  a 
voice.  Now  it  is  a  sound  of  wailing,  melancholy  and 
sweet  as  that  heard  by  the  rivers  of  Babylon  when 
the  harps  were  hung  upon  the  willows, —  "  a  voice  in 
which  the  tears  are  trickling  as  they  are  never  wept 
with  eyes,  a  sobbing  which  might  move  a  stone  to 
pity,  tones  of  pain  such  as  could  come  only  from 
a  breast  which  held  shut  up  within  itself  all  the  mar- 
tyrdom which  a  tortured  race  has  endured  for  eigh- 
teen hundred  years  ;"  now  it  is  a  tone  pure  and  lofty 
as  the  peal  of  the  silver  trumpets  before  the  Holy  of 
Holies  in  the  temple  service,  when  the  gems  in  the 
high  priest's  breastplate  flashed  with  the  descending 
Deity;  now  a  call  to  strive  for  freedom,  bold  and 
clear  as  the  summons  of  the  Maccabees.  But  think 
of  the  cup  that  has  been  pressed  to  the  Jew's  lips  ! 
The  bitterness  has  passed  into  his  soul,  and  utters 
itself  in  scorn  and  poisoned  mocking.  He  cares  not 
what  sanctities  he  insults,  nor  whether  the  scoff 
touches  the  innocent  as  well  as  the  guilty.  Perse- 
cution has  brought  to  pass  desperation,  which  utters 
itself  at  length  in  infernal  laughter. 

A  touching  story  is  told  of  Heine's  last  walk  in 
the  Boulevards,  from  which  he  went  home  to  the 
death  in  life  he  was  doomed  to  undergo  for  many 
years.  It  was  in  May,  1848,  —  a  day  of  revolution. 


544  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

"  Masses  of  people  rolled  along  the  streets  of  Paris, 
driven  about  by  their  tribunes  as  by  storms.  The 
poet,  half  blind,  half  lame,  dragged  himself  on  his 
stick,  tried  to  extricate  himself  from  the  deafening 
uproar,  and  fled  into  the  Louvre,  close  by.  He 
stepped  into  the  rooms  of  the  palace,  —  in  that 
troubled  time  nearly  empty,  —  and  found  himself 
on  the  ground  floor,  in  the  room  in  which  the 
ancient  gods  and  goddesses  stand.  Suddenly  he 
stood  before  the  ideal  of  beauty,  the  smiling,  en- 
trancing goddess,  the  miracle  of  an  unknown  master, 
the  Venus  of  Milo.  Overcome,  agitated,  stricken 
through,  almost  terrified  at  her  aspect,  the  sick  man 
staggered  back  till  he  sank  on  a  seat,  and  tears  hot 
and  bitter  streamed  down  his  cheeks.  The  beautiful 
lips  of  the  goddess,  which  appear  to  breathe,  smiled 
with  her  wonted  smile  at  the  unhappy  victim."1 
Heine  says  himself,  in  a  letter  to  the  father  of  Las- 
selle  :  "  Only  with  pain  could  I  drag  myself  to  the 
Louvre,  and  I  was  nearly  exhausted  when  I  entered 
the  lofty  hall  where  the  blessed  goddess  of  beauty, 
our  dear  Lady  of  Milo,  stands  on  her  pedestal.  At 
her  feet  I  lay  a  long  time,  and  I  wept  so  passionately 
that  a  stone  must  have  had  compassion  on  me. 
Therefore  the  goddess  looked  down  pityingly  upon 
me,  yet  at  the  same  time  inconsolably,  as  though 
she  would  say,  «  See  you  not  that  I  have  no  arms, 
and  that  therefore  I  can  give  you  no  help  ? '  ' 

Of  the  spots  associated  with  Heine  there  is  none 
so  interesting  as  that  room  in  the  Louvre.     I  stood 


Adolph  Meissner,  quoted  by  Stigand- 


HEINRICH  HEINE.  545 

there  on  a  day  when  disturbance  again  raged  on  the 
streets  of  Paris.  It  was  the  end  of  August,  1870. 
In  Alsace  and  Lorraine  the  armies  of  France  had 
just  been  crushed ;  in  the  next  week  was  to  come 
Sedan.  The  streets  were  full  of  the  tumult  of  war, — 
the  foot-beat  of  passing  regiments,  the  clatter  of 
drill,  the  "Marseillaise."  On  the  Seine,  just  be- 
fore, a  band  of  ouvriers  threatened  to  throw  us  into 
the  river  as  Prussian  spies.  In  the  confusion  the 
shrine  of  the  serene  goddess  was  left  vacant,  as  at 
that  former  time.  I  found  it  a  hushed  asylum,  the 
fairest  of  statues  rising  from  its  pedestal,  wearing 
upon  its  lips  its  eternal  smile.  The  rounded  out- 
lines swelled  into  their  curves  of  perfect  beauty ; 
within  the  eyes  lay  the  divine  calm  ;  on  the  neck,  a 
symmetry  more  than  mortal ;  all  this,  and  at  the 
same  time  the  mutilation,  — the  broken  folds  of  the 
drapery,  the  dints  made  in  the  marble  by  barbarian 
blows,  the  absent  arms.  When  one  stands  before 
the  Venus  of  Milo,  it  is  not  unworthy  of  even  so 
high  a  moment  to  call  up  the  image  of  that  suffering 
man  of  great  genius,  shamed  from  his  sneer  and 
restored  to  his  best  self  in  the  supernal  presence. 
May  we  not  see  in  the  statue  a  type  of  Heine's 
genius,  —  so  shorn  of  strength,  so  stained  and  bro- 
ken, yet,  in  the  ruin,  of  beauty  and  power  so  un- 
paralleled ? 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

THE    MODERN  ERA. 

The  story  of  German  literature  has  been  brought 
down  to  our  own  day.  The  position  in  which  the 
German  nation  stands  before  the  world  was  never 
prouder  than  now ;  their  intellectual  activity  was 
never  greater,  their  accomplishment  never  more 
impressive.  As  regards  polite  literature  however  it 
is  not  such  a  period  as  that  which  closed  with  the 
death  of  Gothe  ;  the  modern  era  is  one  of  decay  in 
poetic  force.1  The  causes  of  decay  are  not  far  to 
seek. 

The  new  circumstances  of  the  nation  call  genius 
into  other  fields.  The  change  of  political  condition, 
the  cementing  together  of  the  fragments  of  German 
nationality  into  a  mighty  empire,  gives  new  outlets 
for  ability.  In  public  life,  at  length,  there  are  some 
opportunities  for  the  citizen,  though,  as  yet,  not 
such  opportunities  as  lie  open  to  the  freeborn 
Englishman  and  American.  Again,  in  manufac- 
tures and  commerce  the  possibilities  have  extended 
in  a  marvellous  way.  Until  our  own  time,  German 
industry  has  been  in  every  way  fettered.  Unwise 
trade  regulations  strangled  export  and  import; 


i  Vilmar. 


THE   MODERN  ERA.  547 

commerce  languished  in  the  interior  of  the  land, 
and  abroad  the  wings  of  enterprise  were  crippled. 
The  restrictions  now  are  for  the  most  part  re- 
moved. What  merchant  more  daring  in  his  ven- 
tures than  the  German?  What  competition  more 
dreaded  in  the  markets  of  the  world  than  that  of 
the  German  artisan?  Who  more  bold  than  the 
German  explorer?  There  are  no  finer  ships  upon 
the  seas  than  those  the  German  builds  and  mans. 
In  some  East  Indian  marts  he  threatens  to  crowd 
out  Englishman  and  Hollander.  He  plants  his 
naval  stations  in  the  heart  of  Oceanica,  elbows 
sharply  vegetating  Spaniards  and  Portuguese  in  Rio 
and  Peru  ;  climbs,  in  Schlagintweit,  the  Himalayas  ; . 
in  Barth,  tracks  the  African  desert ;  and  presses 
along  with  Englishman,  American,  and  Russian  in 
search  for  the  North  Pole.  Only  yesterday  the 
possibilities  were  opened,  but  through  them  power 
is  already  marvellously  attracted  that  heretofore 
has  been  spent  at  the  desk  and  in  the  library. 

Positive  science,  in  the  third  place,  has  come  in 
our  time  to  absorb  in  an  extraordinary  degree 
enthusiasm  and  energy.  The  conquest  of  force 
and  matter  never  before  went  forward  so  triumph- 
antly. When  achievement  is  so  dazzling,  what 
wonder  that  ambitious  youths  enlist  for  such  cam- 
paigns, and  crowd  laboratory,  assay-room,  and  the 
cabinet  of  the  naturalist !  The  idealism  which  was 
so  captivating  seventy  years  ago  is  forsaken,  and  the 
few  representatives  of  a  spiritual  philosophy  must 
fight  hard  to  maintain  their  ground  against  Buchner, 
Karl  Vogt,  and  the  other  advocates  of  materialism. 


548  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

One  of  the  most  noted  of  modern  literary  critics 
utters  himself  as  follows  :  "  It  would  be  an  immense 
mistake  to  imagine  that  a  trace  remains  of  the  ele- 
ments that  went  to  form  the  picture  some  writers 
have  given  to  the  world  of  us.  The  idealism,  the 
dreaminess,  the  moonshine,  have  had  their  day. 
We  have  become  strict  realists.  The  questions 
that  occupy  us  in  the  morning,  which  perplex  us  at 
nightfall,  are  business  questions.  All  in  art  and 
literature  that  savored  of  idealism,  dreaminess,  and 
moonshine  has  gone.  We  have  become  accustomed 
to  deal  better  than  we  used  to  with  realities,  and  to 
describe  things  as  they  are.  I  had  a  conversation 
the  other  day  with  one  of  our  best  painters,  in 
which  he  told  me  in  the  most  animated  manner  that 
he  had  found  a  splendid  subject  for  a  picture  ;  that 
he  had  now  spent  twelve  months  in  preparatory  stud- 
ies, and  that  he  should  give  the  next  few  years  of 
his  life  exclusively  to  the  work.  Although  myself 
a  tolerably  thorough-going  realist,  I  at  once  sup- 
posed he  had  chosen  some  famous  event  in  the 
world's  history.  What  was  my  astonishment  when 
he  told  me  that  the  subject  was  an  iron-foundry  !  "  l 
In  our  field,  then,  the  famous  men  have  vanished, 
and  none  of  equal  significance  have  arisen  to  take 
their  places.  The  great  Schiller  hardly  belongs  to 
the  present  century.  Almost  half  a  century  has 
passed  since  the  death  of  the  greater  Gothe.  Roman- 
ticism too  has  passed  almost  utterly  away,  present 
only  in  our  heavens  as  a  bank  of  vapor  hangs  on  the 


Julian  Schmidt,  in  London  Athenaeum,  May  18,  1872. 


THE    MODERN   ERA.  549 

far  horizon,  from  which  the  earth  is  sweeping, — 
shapeless,  indefinite,  full  of  lovely  tints,  but  no 
longer  right  at  hand  to  dazzle  and  obscure.  The 
few  great  men  in  whom  the  brilliant  past  prolonged 
itself  into  the  present  are  one  by  one  dropping  away. 
The  grave  has  just  closed  over  the  poets  Freiligrath 
and  Simrock,  and  the  story-teller,  Hans  Christian 
Andersen.  On  the  scene  we  now  behold  figures  not 
great,  though  often  respectable,  —  poets  like  Jor- 
dan, dramatists  like  Gustav  Freytag,  story-tellers 
like  Auerbach,  Spielhagen,  the  prolific  Miihlbach, 
and  Paul  Heyse.  The  force  that  in  another  time 
might  have  written  a  great  lyric,  guides  an  iron 
steamship  or  founds  a  trading-house  in  Hong  Kong 
or  Valparaiso.  To  discover  the  sources  of  the  Nile, 
or  a  practicable  path  through  the  Arctic  Ocean  seems 
a  grander  thing  than  to  write  "Iphigenia"  or 
* '  Wallenstein  ; "  or  if  men  of  power  remain  at  home 
among  books,  they  are  more  likely  to  undertake 
a  sober  history  than  an  epic,  a  treatise  upon  evolu- 
tion or  the  action  of  molecules  than  a  romantic 
tale. 

Still,  that  writer  would  do  injustice  to  many  per- 
sons of  high  talent  and  noble  industry  who  should 
represent  the  German  literature  of  our  time  as  at  all 
insignificant.  I  was  so  fortunate  as  to  make  my  pil- 
grimage when  America  had  as  a  representative  at 
Berlin  a  scholar  who,  aside  from  diplomatic  ability, 
won  respect  in  that  country  of  scholars  by  the  best 
literarv  gifts  and  acquirements,  the  historian  Ban- 
croft. Mr.  Bancroft  was  always  ready  to  befriend  the 
student,  however  humble,  and  introduced  through 


550  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

him,  I  was  fortunate  enough  to  enjoy  interviews 
with  some  remarkable  men. 

Before  sketching  certain  eminent  living  characters, 
however,  let  me  speak  of  two  men  of  genius  whose 
long  careers  were  full  of  honorable,  useful  industry, 
and  who  link,  in  a  way  convenient  for  our  purpose, 
the  present  with  the  past. 

I  take  down  a  book  from  its  shelf  and  find  in  the 
beginning  this  affectionate  note,  by  way  of  preface  : 

"  Dear  Wilhelm  :  When  thou  last  winter  wert  so 
sick,  I  was  forced  to  think  that  thy  faithful  eyes 
would  perhaps  never  again  fall  upon  this  book.  I 
sat  at  thy  table,  in  thy  chair,  and  beheld  with  inde- 
scribable grief  with  what  unerring  taste  and  judg- 
ment thou  hadst  read  and  arranged  the  first  volumes 
of  my  work.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  had  written  it 
only  for  thee,  and  that  if  thou  wert  taken  from  me 
I  could  not  possibly  finish  it.  God's  grace  has  pre- 
vailed, and  left  thee  with  us  ;  therefore  the  book  be- 
longs of  right  to  thee."  *  *  *  "  At  least,  when 
thou  readest  me,  who  knowest  my  whole  capacity, — 
what  strength  it  has,  and  where  it  fails,  — I  am  bet- 
ter pleased  than  when  a  hundred  others  read  me, 
who  perhaps  now  and  then  do  not  understand  me, 
or  to  whom  my  labor  is  perhaps  an  indifferent  mat- 
ter. But  thou  hast  the  most  unwavering  sympathy, 
not  only  with  the  subject,  but  with  me.  In  broth- 
erly love  mayest  thou  be  satisfied  with  every  thing  ! ' ' 

The  note  is  the  preface  to  the  third  volume  of  a 
great  "  German  Grammar," — a  work  which  lies  at 
the  foundation  of  the  science  of  historic  grammar,  — 
a  sweet  expression  of  brotherly  love  lying  in  the 


THE   MODERN  ERA.  551 

midst  of  the  dry  linguistic  detail,  like  a  fragrant 
flower  that  has  fallen  in  and  been  pressed  within 
the  ponderous  covers.  It  lets  us  at  once  into 
the  lives  of  two  of  the  most  beautiful  characters 
of  literary  history,  —  Jakob  and  Wilhelm  Grimm. 
They  were  brothers  not  far  apart  in  the  cradle, 
not  for  apart  in  death ;  lying  now  side  by  side 
in  graves  precisely  similar,  as  I  saw  them  in  a  quiet 
church-yard,  a  lovely  rose-bush  scattering  petals 
impartially  on  the  turf  above  both,  and  solid  twin 
stones  at  their  heads,  meant  to  endure,  appa- 
rently, as  long  as  their  fame.  For  the  most  part 
their  labor  was  performed  in  common,  —  Jakob,  the 
abler,  leading  the  way,  but  Wilhelm,  as  the  note 
indicates,  always  at  hand  to  help  with  admirable 
judgment  and  fidelity. 

The  work  of  the  brothers  Grimm  must  be  re- 
garded as  perhaps  the  most  marvellous  work  of  the 
marvellous  German  erudition.  Aside  from  the 
"German  Grammar,"  they  are  the  projectors  of 
the  great  dictionary,  which  they  also  partially  exe- 
cuted, in  which  not  only  the  present  meaning,  but 
the  thorough  history  of  the  words  of  the  German 
language  is  to  be  given,  following  the  changing 
forms  and  shadings  in  signification  through  all  the 
centuries. 

Best  of  all,  perhaps,  they  made  the  folk-lore  of 
the  Teutonic  race  a  subject  of  scientific  study, 
showing  that  in  many  cases  the  nursery-tale  which 
delights  the  little  child  to-day,  traced  back  through 
a  thousand  phases,  has  come  down  from  primeval 
times.  In  every  old  land  there  blooms  in  the  pop- 


552  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

ular  heart  the  Marchen.  They  are  a  wild  growth, 
full  often  of  beauty  and  perfume.  Within  the 
present  century  this  artless  Flora  has  found  a  Lin- 
naeus to  subject  it  to  scientific  study,  in  Jakob 
Grimm.  As  the  botanist  studies  stamen,  petal,  and 
pistil,  so  the  brothers  Grimm  —  for  Wilhelm  was 
here,  as  always,  the  helper  —  study  and  compare 
the  giant  and  the  dwarf,  the  enchanted  castle  and 
magic  wand,  the  wicked  step-mother,  the  heroic 
younger  son,  the  robber-cave,  each  circumstance 
and  feature,  every  whiff  of  aroma  and  line  of  tint- 
ing in  the  Marchen,  all  with  scientific  purpose. 
As  a  first  result  the  Grimms  dared  to  propound  the 
striking  theory  that  the  genuine  Marchen  were  noth- 
ing more  nor  less  than  the  remains  of  the  great 
legends  of  the  old  religious  faiths,  softened  down, 
but  still  living  in  the  souls,  of  the  people.  "  How 
much  yet,"  exclaimed  Niebuhr,  "of  the  old  Ro- 
man mythology  may  live  in  the  Marchen,  if  only 
some  dweller  among  the  homes  of  the  peasants  of 
the  Appenines  could  investigate!"  In  like  man- 
ner the  Grimms  and  their  followers  would  have  us 
believe  that  the  phantoms  of  the  mighty  Norse  gods 
still  haunt  the  hearth  among  the  races  of  the  Teu- 
tonic stock.  It  has  even  been  said  that  we  must 
give  up  William  Tell,  perhaps  William  Wallace,  as 
flesh  and  blood  heroes ;  and  that  Robin  Hood  is  a 
purely  mythical  being,  no  other  than  the  God  Odin, 
who,  although  the  faith  of  which  he  was  the  central 
figure  has  been  so  long  displaced,  yet  refuses  to  be 
exorcised  from  the  popular  mind. 

Balder,  the  beautiful,  is  dead,  is  dead, 


THE   MODERN   ERA.  553 

sings  the  Swedish  poet  Tegner,  after  the  old  saga ; 
and  in  like  manner  with  Balder,  we  have  believed 
that  Odin,  and  Thor,  and  Freya  had  also  passed 
away.  These  students  would  have  us  believe  that 
they  are  not  dead ;  or,  if  so,  that  their  ghosts  re- 
fuse to  be  laid.  The  grim  circumstance  that 
attended  them  in  their  old  preeminence  has  been 
laid  aside  ;  but  often,  in  gentle,  indeed  in  blithe  and 
merry  guise,  they  continue  to  appear  to  the  chil- 
dren of  the  great  races  whose  forefathers  worshipped 
them.  It  is  hard  to  have  our  dearest  heroes  fade 
away  into  mist;  but  perhaps,  after  all,  we  have  a 
more  than  adequate  recompense  in  the  wonderful 
grandeur  of  the  thought  that  these  rough  hands  of 
the  old  gods  refuse  to  become  decrepit  through  time, 
or  to  be  beaten  off  by  culture  ;  that  they  reach 
round  the  new  altars  that  have  crowded  out  their 
own  simple  fanes,  and  across  the  widest  oceans,  to 
the  homes  of  the  farthest  wanderers,  clasping  still 
the  hearts  of  the  children  whose  wild  sires  ren- 
dered them  solemn  worship. 

The  brothers  Grimm  laid  under  obligation  per- 
haps a  wider  public  than  authors  have  ever  before 
addressed,  —  the  babe  almost  in  his  cradle,  the 
youth  struggling  with  the  rudiments  of  scholarship, 
the  grayest  scholar  and  thinker.  There  is  not  now 
living  a  better  representative  of  the  writers,  so 
many  of  whom  have  been  considered  as  we  have 
traced  the  course  of  German  literature, —  enthu- 
siasts in  poetry,  history,  and  criticism,  and  remark- 
able in  all,  the  class  the  illustrious  types  of  which 


554  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

are  the  greatest  men  Lessing,  Gothe,  Schiller,  and 
Heine, — than  Hermann  Grimm,  the  son  of  Wilhelm. 
At  twenty-five  he  attracted  to  himself  notice  by  his 
drama  of  "Demetrius,"  a  work  soon  followed  by  a 
series  of  well-written  romances.  Later  came  the 
"Life  of  Michael  Angelo,"  a  book  almost  as  fa- 
mous in  England  and  America  as  Germany  ;  various 
critical  papers  upon  subjects  of  art  and  literature, 
noteworthy  among  which  is  one  upon  the  Venus  of 
Milo  ;  and  lastly,  a  series  of  lectures  upon  Gothe, 
given  in  the  University  of  Berlin,  a  portrayal  whose 
constant  tone  of  eulogy  is  somewhat  fatiguing,  but 
a  most  vivid,  and,  on  the  whole,  trustworthy  picture 
of  Germany's  greatest  mind.  I  found  him  in  his 
study,  which  was  filled  with  books  and  objects  of 
art,  a  vigorous  man  in  his  best  years,  with  the  face 
and  courteous  polish  of  a  man  of  the  highest  refine- 
ment. He  was  interested  in  America,  and  knew 
well  American  books,  having  in  particular  an  ad- 
miration for  Emerson,  several  of  whose  essays  he 
had  translated,  doing  much  also  in  other  ways  to 
make  him  known  in  Germany. 

As  I  sat  with  Hermann  Grimm  his  brother  en- 
tered the  room.  It  was  thrilling  to  be  with  the 
brothers  Grimm  of  to-day,  so  nearly  connected 
with  the  brothers  Grimm  of  great  fame.  I  saw 
the  relics  consecrated  by  the  use  of  the  father  and 
the  greater  uncle,  —  the  thumbed  volumes  worn  and 
dog-eared  in  the  course  of  their  investigations, 
written  thick  in  the  margin  with  notes  in  their  own 
writing. 

But  especially  fine  was  it  to  see  a  photograph  of 


THE   MODERN  ERA.  555 

the  two  old  men,  who  labored  so  long  together  and 
whose  fame  is  so  inseparably  linked,  sitting  in 
brotherly  nearness,  with  faces  full  of  intellectual 
strength,  and  yet  with  the  sweetness  and  innocence  of 
children.  "  They  were  lovely  and  pleasant  in  their 
lives,  and  in  their  deaths  were  they  not  divided." 

On  another  day  I  rung  at  a  door  whose  modest 
plate  bore  the  name  Leopold  von  Ranke.  He  is 
called  the  type  and  leader  of  the  modern  school  of 
German  historians,  —  somewhat  too  reactionary  in 
his  views  to  please  the  friends  of  freedom,  but  pos- 
sessing a  skill  of  presentment  which,  among  the 
writers  of  the  present  day,  is  quite  unmatched.  He 
has  hitherto  been  best  known  to  English  readers  for 
his  history  of  the  Popes  in  the  sixteenth  and  seven- 
teenth centuries,  a  work  long  ago  translated  and 
most  widely  circulated.  As  historiographer  of  the 
kingdom  of  Prussia  he  has  written  many  volumes 
relating  to  that  country  ;  he  has  written  others  con- 
cerning Southern  Germany  and  the  south  of  Europe. 
Latterly  he  has  appeared  in  the  field  of  English 
history,  treating  an  important  field  with  all  possible 
thoroughness  and  judgment.  I  was  promptly  ad- 
mitted to  an  unpretending  parlor,  lined  with  well- 
filled  bookcases.  Presently  Yon  Ranke  came  for- 
ward from  an  adjoining  room,  wrapped  in  a  long 
dressing-gown, — a  man  of  seventy-five,  a  short,  bent 
figure,  with  high  shoulders,  but  with  a  fresh-hued, 
bright  face  and  cheerful  eye.  He  addressed  me  at 
once  in  English,  complimenting  Mr.  Bancroft,  and 
plied  me  straightway  with  sharp  questions  about 
America.  His  mind  was  nimble  and  keen, —  evi- 


556  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

dently  quite  unbroken.  He  is  still  living  and  labo- 
rious, having  accomplished  since  I  saw  him  some  of 
his  best  work. 

If  Von  Rauke  has  a  rival  as  the  leader  of  modern 
German  historians,  it  is  Theodor  Mommsen,  histo- 
rian of  Rome,  —  in  that  direction,  certainly,  the  first 
living  man.  The  translation  of  his  great  history 
every  intelligent  reader  of  English  has  seen,  —  a 
mighty  construction  of  learning  and  acuteness. 
The  famous  Dane,  Niebuhr,  led  the  way  in  exercis- 
ing sharp  discrimination  in  the  field  of  ancient  his- 
tory, separating  the  fabulous  and  mythical  from  the 
true.  Mommsen  is  his  worthy  disciple,  presenting 
however  the  results  he  reaches  with  far  more  skill 
and  grace  than  his  master.  Mommsen  began  life  as 
a  jurist,  and  his  training  and  knowledge  in  that 
direction  lend  to  his  history  certain  important  excel- 
lences ;  perhaps  too  it  is  due  to  this  that  he  is  too 
much  inclined  to  play  the  advocate  in  the  treatment 
of  the  heroes  of  his  tale.  He  has  also  gathered, 
with  remarkable  sagacity,  and  for  the  first  time 
used,  important  scraps  of  history  derived  from 
monumental  inscriptions.  Mommsen  too  I  found 
in  his  study.  He  came  forward  from  his  books  and 
manuscripts  to  greet  the  stranger,  —  a  thin  figure, 
hardly  past  fifty,  and  yet  bent  as  with  the  weight  of 
great  erudition ;  a  pale  cheek,  a  dark  eye,  not 
quenched  at  all  by  study,  a  profusion  of  dark  hair, 
which  was  turning  gray,  over  an  intellectual  head. 
His  voice  seemed  thin  and  weak,  though  under  ex- 
citement, I  was  told,  it  became  strong  enough. 
His  whole  appearance  spoke  of  constant  toil  and  se- 


THE   MODERN  ERA.  557 

elusion,  and  one  could  see  what  it  costs  to  become 
great  in  his  direction.  He  received  me  somewhat 
stiffly,  but  politely.  He  too  paid  Bancroft  a  high 
compliment,  saying  that  it  was  not  often  that  men 
so  worthy  and  scholarly  were  found  in  diplomatic 
positions.  As  a  historian  he  considered  him  most 
fortunate  in  his  subject,  having  a  field  for  the  most 
part  unoccupied.  He  spoke  cordially  of  America, 
and  when  I  hinted  at  some  of  our  shortcomings, 
said,  hopefully,  that  the  future  belonged  to  us,  and 
all  would  come  right  in  time.  In  the  midst  of  our 
talk,  three  pretty  children,  the  oldest  perhaps  six, 
came  laughing  and  dancing  into  the  room  to  bid 
their  father  good-night.  He  kissed  them  with  pride 
and  pleasure,  the  light  in  his  fine  eyes  becoming  play- 
ful. While  the  sunbeam  was  shining  I  left  the 
student's  dusty  den,  with  its  disordered  piles  of 
books,  its  heaps  of  manuscript,  its  casts  and  plates 
of  Roman  antiques. 

There  is  a  class  of  men  which  in  our  time  has 
become  wonderfully  extended  and  influential,  to  dis- 
cuss which  does  not  properly  belong  to  my  topic. 
This  class  however  has  absorbed  much  power  which 
in  another  age  than  ours  would  have  undoubtedly 
gone  to  literature,  and  has  still  a  close  relation  with 
it,  —  I  mean  the  votaries  of  physical  science.  I  may, 
at  any  rate,  describe  some  of  their  representatives. 
"  You  must  see  Bunsen  and  Kirchoff,"  said  a  friend 
to  me,  soon  after  my  arrival  at  Heidelberg.  I  had 
long  known  the  names  as  the  most  famous  ones  con- 
nected with  what  is  perhaps  the  most  famous  scien- 


558  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

tific  discovery  of  our  time,  —  spectral  analysis, — by 
means  of  which  matter  can  be  dissected  as  never 
before,  yielding  new  elements,  what  have  until  now 
been  considered  as  ultimates,  showing  that  they  ad- 
mit of  still  further  subdivision.  More  wonderful 
still,  spectral  analysis  is  the  process  by  means  of 
which  the  observer  becomes  even  sublimely  armed, 
penetrating  space  even  to  the  sun,  to  the  distant 
fixed  stars,  wresting  from  them  the  secret  of  their 
substance. 

In  Bunsen's  lecture-room,  accordingly,  one  morn- 
ing I  found  myself  among  a  crowd  of  young  chem- 
ists, waiting  with  their  note-books  on  the  amphithe- 
atre of  seats.  A  long  table  at  the  farther  end  of  the 
room  was  covered  with  the  apparatus  for  a  chemical 
lecture,  here  and  there  among  the  retorts  and  beak- 
ers the  quivering,  almost  colorless,  flames  of  the 
Bunsen  burners,  ready  to  do  sendee  for  their  inven- 
tor. A  spectroscope  lay  at  one  side,  its  handsome 
prisms  just  visible ;  for  aught  I  know  there  were 
still  more  discoveries  of  the  great  teacher,  which 
another  would  have  recognized.  Punctually  at  the 
hour  Bunsen  entered, — a  tall,  commanding  figure,  a 
man  of  nearly  sixty,  simply  dressed,  his  head  sur- 
mounted by  a  skull-cap.  There  was  no  sound  in  the 
room  but  the  lecturer's  quiet  voice,  and  now  and 
then  a  scratch  of  the  pen,  as  the  large  company  of 
reverent  young  men  bent  to  their  notes.  They  were 
indeed  reverent.  Bunsen  has  never  been  married  ; 
he  sleeps  and  lives  among  his  crucibles,  —  his  sci- 
ence his  wife,  his  pupils  his  children  ;  and  I  heard 
strange  stories,  which  in  another  time  would  have 


THE   MODERN  ERA.  559 

gone  far  to  carry  him  to  the  stake  as  a  wizard,  that 
the  flesh  of  his  hands  had  become  as  asbestos  from 
the  handling  of  flames  and  acids 

I  found  Kirchoff  a  much  younger  man,  and  still 
younger  in  appearance  than  reality.  As  he  stepped 
out  —  prompt  to  the  minute  —  before  the  waiting* 
crowded  benches  of  his  lecture-room,  and  with  no 
preface  but  a  quick,  formal  bow,  plunged  into  the 
midst  of  the  abstrusities  of  physics,  he  seemed 
scarcely  older  than  the  students  he  addressed. 
Slight  and  pale,  with  a  modesty  that  flushed  his 
cheek  suddenly  sometimes,  he  went  on  with  an  even, 
unhesitating  utterance,  now  and  then  turning  to  the 
black-board  to  draw,  with  rapid  hand,  a  diagram, 
or  a  series  of  algebraic  symbols.  He  had  lived  long 
enough  to  make  himself,  in  his  direction,  one  of  the 
most  famous  men  of  the  world,  and  the  great  uni- 
versities were  contending  for  the  honor  of  counting 
him  in  their  faculties. 

Walking  one  day  through  a  quiet  street,  I  came 
upon  a  man  who  was  going  slowly  and  thoughtfully 
in  the  opposite  direction,  toward  a  university  build- 
ing. His  appearance  was  striking.  He  was  finely 
formed,  and  had  a  military  carriage  ;  his  well-shaped 
head  sat  upon  a  muscular  neck,  and  his  eye  glanced 
dark  and  piercing,  as  he  looked  at  me  in  passing. 
He  seemed  the  ideal  of  bodily  and  intellectual  vigor, 
and  I  followed  him  with  my  eyes  till  he  disappeared 
within  the  building  before  us.  It  was  Helmholtz, 
who,  Tyndall  says,  was  described  to  him  as  the 
brightest  mind  of  Germany,  —  certainly  an  intellect 
of  the  first  order,  an  investigator  most  persistent 


560  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

and  successful  in  the  obscurest  departments  of 
physics  and  physiology.  It  is  an  era  in  one's  life  to 
see  such  a  man  in  his  lecture-hall,  standing  with 
something  of  military  precision  before  his  silent 
class,  quiet  and  fluent  in  his  unrivalled  mastery  of 
his  topics. 

With  these  personal  sketches  the  story  of  Ger- 
man literature  is  concluded.  Let  us  allow  our- 
selves a  brief  glance  toward  the  future.  Is  German 
literature  to  preserve  its  eminence  ?  If  it  depends 
upon  thorough  mental  training,  what  more  can  be 
done?  There  is  scarcely  to  be  found  in  all  Germany 
a  human  being,  not  imbecile  or  a  very  young  child, 
who  cannot  read  and  write.  An  inexorable  law 
forces  every  child  into  school  until  he  gains  a  train- 
ing tolerably  complete  ;  and  to  those  who  seek  an 
elaborate  education,  such  advantages  are  open  as  are 
afforded  nowhere  else  in  the  world.  I  went  one 
day  into  a  ' '  Volk-schule  ' '  —  school  for  the  children 
of  the  people,  —  a  roomy,  well-arranged  structure, 
standing  back  from  the  street  in  a  quiet  court  by 
itself,  with  rooms  all  well  filled.  It  was  a  school  for 
boys,  sons  of  operatives  in  factories,  which  abounded 
in  the  neighborhood ;  from  ten  to  fourteen  they 
were,  prompt  and  promising,  well  alive  in  all  their 
work.  Looking  out  through  a  window  into  a  court 
attached  to  the  school-building,  I  saw  the  martial 
feature  which  pervades  all  Prussian  life.  The  teacher 
of  gymnastics  was  leading  a  great  troop  of  boys 
through  a  series  of  half-military  evolutions,  fitted  to 
train  them  to  take  kindly  by  and  by  to  the  stern 


THE   MODERN  ERA.  561 

drilling  which  lay  before  them  all  when  they  had 
fairly  got  their  growth. 

The  most  interesting  of  the  German  schools  are 
the  "Gymnasien,"  the  nurseries  of  the  best  intellect 
of  the  country.  I  attended  an  exercise  in  Latin  of 
the  "Prima,"  or  highest  class.  Fifty  youths  of 
eighteen  sat  on  plain  benches,  in  a  room  bare  of  every 
thing  but  the  indispensable  furniture.  They  rose  as 
the  teacher  entered,  then  sitting,  sang  a  choral  in 
concert,  with  powerful  voices.  The  drill  that  fol- 
lowed was  admirable  ;  so  too  in  an  adjoining  room, 
where  the  boys  were  reading  Homer ;  and  in  another, 
where  an  enthusiastic  teacher  lectured  upon  a  subject 
of  natural  history.  Each  master  was  competent,  and 
teaching  in  the  direction  in  which  he  was  strongest, 
the  youths  eager,  respectful,  and  finely  trained. 
Only  here  again  was  the  martial  feature,  in  a  con- 
nection which  seemed  at  first  irreverent;  after  all 
it  was  thoroughly  Prussian,  and  deserved  to  be 
looked  upon  as  a  comical  incongruity  rather  than 
gravely  blamed.  A  row  of  cheap  pictures  hung  side 
by  side  upon  the  wall.  First,  Luther,  the  rougher 
characteristics  of  the  well-known  portrait  somewhat 
exaggerated.  The  shoulders  were  even  larger  than 
common.  The  bony  buttresses  over  the  eyes  too, 
as  they  ros»  above  the  strong  lower  face,  were  em- 
phasized, looking  truly  as  if,  if  tongue  and  pen 
failed  to  make  a  way,  the  shoulders  could  push  one, 
and  if  worse  came  to  worst,  the  head  would  butt  one. 
Next  to  Luther  was  a  head  of  Christ ;  then,  in  the 
same  line,  with  nothing  in  the  position  or  quality  of 
the  pictures  to  indicate  that  the  subjects  were  any 


562  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

less  esteemed,  a  row  of  royal  personages,  whose 
military  trappings  were  made  particularly  plain.  It 
was  all  characteristic  enough.  The  Reformer's  figure 
stood  for  the  stalwart  Protestantism  of  the  German 
character,  still  living  and  militant  in  a  way  hard  for 
us  to  imagine  ;  the  portraits  of  the  royal  soldiers,  for 
its  combative  loyalty,  ready  to  meet  any  thing  for 
the  Fatherland  ;  the  head  of  Christ,  for  the  zealous 
faith  which,  however  it  may  have  cooled  away 
among  some  classes  of  the  people,  is  still  intense  in 
others. 

Crowning  the  schools  in  the  educational  system 
come  the  famous  universities.  In  the  best  of  these 
there  is  no  branch  of  human  knowledge  without  its 
teacher.  One  can  study  Egyptian  hieroglyphics 
or  the  Assyrian  arrow-head  inscriptions.  A  new 
pimple  can  hardly  break  out  on  the  blotched  face  of 
the  moon  without  a  lecture  from  a  professor  next 
day  to  explain  the  theory  of  its  development.  The 
poor  earthquakes  are  hardly  left  to  shake  in  peace 
an  out-of-the-way  strip  of  South  American  coast  or 
Calabrian  plain  but  a  German  professor  will  violate 
their  privacy,  undertake  to  see  whence  they  come 
and  whither  they  go,  and  even  try  to  predict  when 
they  will  go  to  shaking  again.  The  discipline  is  of 
the  easiest  sort.  The  student  selects  his  lectures, 
then  goes  day  by  day  to  the  plain  lecture-rooms, 
taking  notes  diligently  at  benches  which  preceding 
generations  have  whittled  well,  where  he  too  will 
carve  his  own  name,  and  perhaps  the  name  of  the 
dear  girl  he  adores  ;  for  Yankee  boys  have  no  mo- 
nopoly of  the  jack-knife.  If  at  the  end,  however, 


THE   MODERN  ERA.  563 

he  presents  himself  for  examination,  his  stock  of 
knowledge  is  sifted  well ;  and  if  he  departs  with  a 
degree,  has  a  fair  title  to  be  considered  a  learned 
man.  It  is  very  fine,  the  preliminary  training  being 
what  it  is.  It  would  be  useless,  or  worse  than  use- 
less, without  the  indispensable  pedestal  upon  which 
the  statue  stands.  Into  the  university  too  Mars 
thrusts  himself,  showing  his  presence  most  plainly 
perhaps  in  the  duelling  habits  of  the  students. 

To  crown  all,  schools  and  universities  are  supple- 
mented in  many  places  by  crowded  libraries,  and  by 
an  instrumentality  of  which  as  yet,  in  America,  we 
have  almost  nothing,  but  which  is  most  effective  to- 
ward a  noble  culture,  —  the  historical  museum.  For 
a  specimen,  that  at  Berlin  is  a  vast  collection  where 
one  may  study  the  rise  and  progress  of  civilization 
in  every  race  of  past  ages  that  has  had  a  history,  and 
the  present  condition  of  perhaps  every  people,  civ- 
ilized or  wild,  under  the  sun.  In  one  great  hall  you 
are  among  the  satin  garments  and  lacquered  furni- 
ture of  China ;  in  another  it  is  the  seal-skin  work 
of  the  Esquimaux,  stitched  with  sinew.  Now  you 
sit  in  a  Tartar  tent ;  now  among-the  war-clubs,  the 
conch-shell  trumpets,  the  drums  covered  with  human 
.skin  of  the  Polynesians.-  Here  it  is  the  feathery 
finery  of  the  Caribs  ;  here  the  idols  and  trinkets  of 
the  negroes  of  Soudan.  There  too,  in  still  other 
halls,  is  the  history  of  our  own  race :  the  maces 
with  which  the  primeval  Teutons  fought,  the  tores 
of  twisted  gold  they  wore  about  their  necks,  the 
sacrificial  knives  that  slew  the  victims  upon  the  altar 
of  Odin.  So  too  what  our  fathers  afterwards 


564  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

carved  and  spun,  moulded,  cast,  and  portrayed,  until 
the  task  of  life  was  taken  up  by  us.  Again  the  vis- 
itor stands  within  the  fac-simile  of  a  temple  on  the 
banks  of  the  Nile.  On  the  walls  and  lotus-shaped 
columns  are  processions  of  dark  figures,  at  the 
loom,  at  the  work  of  irrigation,  marching  as  sol- 
diers, or  as  mourners  at  a  funeral, — exact  copies  of 
originial  delineations.  Real,  however,  are  sphinx 
and  obelisk,  the  coffins  of  kings,  mummies  of  priest 
and  princess,  the  fabrics  they  wove,  the  scrolls  they 
engrossed,  the  tombs  in  which  they  were  buried. 
In  another  section  you  are  in  Assyria,  with  the  ala- 
baster lions  and  plumed  genii  of  the  men  of  Nineveh 
and  Babylon.  Upon  the  walls  is  thrown  all  the 
splendor  of  the  palaces  of  Nebuchadnezzar;  the 
captives  building  temples,  the  chivalry  sacking  cities, 
the  princes  upon  their  thrones.  Here  too  is 
Etruria,  revealed  in  her  sculptures  and  painted 
vases ;  and  here  too  the  .whole  story  of  Greece. 
Passing  through  those  wonderful  halls,  you  review  a 
thousand  years  and  more,  almost  from  the  epoch  of 
Cadmus,  through  the  vicissitudes  of  empire  and 
servitude,  until  Constantinople  is  sacked  by  the 
Turks.  The  rude  Pelasgic  altar,  the  sculptured  god 
of  Praxiteles,  then  down^through  the  ages  of  decay 
to  the  ugly  painting  of  the  Byzantine  monk  in  the 
Dark  Ages.  So  too  the  whole  story  of  Rome  :  the 
long  heave  of  the  wave,  until  it  becomes  crested 
with  the  might  and  beauty  of  the  Augustan  age ; 
the  sad  subsidence  thence  to  Goth  and  Hun. 
There  is  architecture  which  the  Tarquins  saw ; 
statues  of  the  great  consuls  of  the  republic  ;  the 


THE    MODERN  ERA.  565 

luxury  of  the  later  empire.  You  see  it  not  only  in 
models,  but  in  actual  relics.  One's  blood  thrills 
when  he  stands  before  a  statue  of  Julius  Caesar, 
whose  sculptor,  it  is  reasonable  to  believe,  wrought 
from  the  life.  It  is  broken  and  discolored  as  it 
came  from  the  Italian  ruin  where  it  had  lain  since 
the  barbarian  raids.  But  the  grace  has  not  left  the 
toga,  folded  across  the  breast,  nor  is  the  fine  Roman 
majesty  gone  from  the  head  and  face,  —  a  head  small, 
but  high,  with  a  full  and  ample  brow,  a  nose  with 
the  true  eagle  curve,  and  thin,  firm  lips,  formed  to 
command ;  a  statue  most  subduing  in  its  simple 
dignity,  and  pathetic  in  its  partial  ruin. 

Verily  if  the  appliances  of  the  broadest  and 
deepest  possible  culture  are  the  conditions  of  a 
great  literature,  what  land  so  full  of  promise?  But 
let  us  not  hastily  decide.  At  the  beginning  of  the 
chapter,  causes  were  mentioned  which  interfere  at 
present  with  the  upspringing  of  a  great  literature  ; 
the  same  causes  are  likely  to  act  more  strongly  in 
the  future.  Standing  on  the  university  steps  at  Ber- 
lin, looking  across  the  broad  "  Unter  den  Linden," 
it  was  once,  and  perhaps  is  still,  an  every-day  sight 
to  behold,  towering  at  one  of  the  lower  windows  of 
the  palace  opposite,  an  erect,  martial  figure  of  im- 
posing height,  the  red  facings  of  a  handsome  uni- 
form buttoned  across  a  massive  chest,  a  face  ex- 
pressive of  benevolence  and  force,  set  off  by  a 
heavy,  gray  mustache,  and  hair  whitened  by  nearly 
eighty  winters.  The  crowd  passing  on  the  side- 
walk bows  respectfully,  the  figure  at  the  window  in- 


566  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

clining  in  response  in  stately  courtesy.  So  stands 
the  old  Kaiser  Wilhelm,  such  a  potentate  as  Ger- 
many has  not  seen  for  six  hundred  years,  himself 
the  living  type  of  one  of  the  most  important  changes 
of  modern  history, — the  unification  of  Germany. 
It  is  a  proud  and  perilous  preeminence,  and  just  as 
magnificent  is  the  eminence  before  the  world  of  the 
land  which  he  rules.  And  what  shall  be  said  of 
this  as  bearing  upon  the  question  in  hand  ?  This 
melting  away  of  barriers  —  accompanied  as  it  is 
by  a  higher  degree  of  freedom  for  the  German 
citizen,  by  a  national  life  in  every  way  more  digni- 
fied and  stimulating  —  brings  an  alleviation  of  bur- 
dens and  a  general  bettering  of  circumstances. 
Fields  open  for  the  German  in  every  direction,  so 
that  he  may  vie  on  equal  terms  with  the  master- 
races  of  the  world,  in  spinning  and  casting,  in  buy- 
ing and  selling,  in  ploughing  the  sea  and  struggling 
for  a  foothold  in  far  regions.  It  will  not  stimulate, 
but  abate,  the  literary  energy  whose  pressure  has 
been  so  marvellous. 

Said  a  shrewd  German  once,  a  citizen  of  our  own 
country,  at  a  convention  of  American  teachers, 
when  a  disparaging  comparison  was  made  between 
American  and  German  universities  :  ' '  German  uni- 
versities have  become  great  because  the  land  has 
been  oppressed.  The  trammelled  people,  for  whom 
the  outlets  of  trade,  politics,  manufacture,  have 
been  in  past  times  so  nearly  blocked,  were  forced  to 
spend  energy  in  somewhat  far-away  scholarship. 
Hence,  largely,  the  remarkable  achievement."  I 
believe  the  remark  is  wise,  and  admits  of  more 


THE   MODERN  ERA.  567 

extended  application.  Not  alone  the  erudition,  but 
the  splendid  literary  and  philosophical  development, 
would  have  failed,  had  there  been  elsewhere  a 
sphere  for  power.  Take  Fichte  ;  it  is  reasonable  to 
say  that  he  would  not  have  been  satisfied  to  spend 
his  life  in  ideal  dreamings,  —  he  who,  when  opportu- 
nity offered,  could  talk  with  such  direct  practical 
eloquence  to  the  German  nation,  —  if  in  his  day 
there  had  been  a  chance  for  a  man  of  the  people 
among  German  statesmen.  Take  Schiller, — less  a 
poet  than  a  magnificent  preacher  and  teacher  ;  if  he 
could  have  uttered  himself  unconstrainedly  as  an 
orator,  he  would  have  written  fewer  books.  Or 
the  grand  Lessing,  —  so  full  of  ideas  about  toler- 
ance, the  alleviating  of  human  misery,  the  breaking 
of  chains  in  State  and  Church  ;  if  he  could  have 
spoken  his  divine  passion  directly,  how  he  might 
have  led  the  people  !  In  his  bondage  he  could  only 
utter  furtive  criticism  and  indirect  scorn  of  existing 
things,  in  "Minna  von  Barnhelm,"  "Emilia  Ga- 
lotti,"  and  the  "Nathan,"  masterpieces  forever  pre- 
cious ;  but  untrammelled,  we  can  imagine  that  his 
masterpieces  would  have  been  of  a  different  sort.  In 
the  days  of  tyranny,  poetry,  scholarship,  philoso- 
phy were  almost  the  German's  only  outlet.  At 
the  present  time  they  are  some  among  a  multitude 
of  outlets  through  which  power  can  pour  itself. 
What  keeps  America  from  greatness  in  these  quiet 
fields?  The  diversion  of  power  into  politics  and 
business.  Hence  the  world  calls  to  us  in  vain  for 
a  great  poem,  — in  vain  for  a  work  of  the  highest 
erudition  ;  and  those  who  strive  to  rear  universities 


568  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

among  the  great  factories  and  marts  are  crippled 
and  thwarted  at  every  turn.  The  German,  to  be 
sure,  as  yet  is  far  enough  from  having  such  free- 
dom ;  he  has  habits,  traditions,  institutions,  reach- 
ing down  from  the  former  time,  to  hamper  and 
thwart ;  but  somewhat  as  we  are  are  the  Germans, 
and  the  likeness  in  circumstances  will  grow  greater. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

GERMAN  STYLE. 

At  the  present  day  no  foreign  literature  is  affect- 
ing us  so  powerfully  as  that  of  Germany.  It  is 
worthy  to  exercise  such  an  influence.  There  is  no 
department  in  human  effort  in  which  the  Germans 
are  not  abreast  with  the  foremost,  and  in  some  di- 
rections they  are  leaders,  of  the  world.  As 
scholars,  in  several  of  the  fine  arts,  above  all  as 
philosophical  thinkers,  their  authority  is  surpass- 
ing. But  great  as  have  been  the  benefits  coming 
to  us  through  their  influence,  these  have  not  been 
unalloyed. 

"  Perseus,"  says  old  Cowley,  "who,  you  use  to 
say,  you  do  not  know  whether  he  be  a  good  poet  or 
not,  because  you  do  not  understand  him,  and  whom 
therefore  I  say  I  know  not  to  be  a  good  poet."  l 
Shall  we  accept  as  truth  to-day  this  doctrine,  which 
comes  to  us  from  the  seventeenth  century?  Are 
writers  of  poetry,  as  well  as  prose,  to  be  set  down 
as  not  good  if  we  cannot  understand  them  ?  Yes  ; 
the  first  excellence  of  expression  is  for  a  writer  or 
speaker  to  make  his  meaning  clear. 

It  is  impossible  however  to  deny  that  a  certain 


Essay  on  Procrastination. 


570  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

effectiveness  may  come  from  obscurity.  The  bug- 
bear which  in  the  daytime  when  clearly  seen,  we 
treat  with  indifference,  becomes,  wThen  partly  hid- 
den by  the  night,  a  thing  of  terror.  Beauty,  which 
makes  little  impression  when  fully  revealed,  becomes 
entrancing  if  partially  veiled.  Give  the  imagination 
its  opportunity,  and  it  will  conceive  as  existing  be- 
hind the  curtain  a  hideousness  of  danger,  or  a  per- 
fection of  charm,  far  beyond  what  is  really  there. 
In  the  same  way,  taking  every  thing  unknown  for 
something  magnificent,  according  to  Tacitus  in  the 
"Agricola,"  we  often  credit  with  undue  power  and 
value  unintelligible  words. 

It  is  not  often  however  that  a  writer  dares  to  step 
forth  openly  in  defence  of  obscurity.  One  such  de- 
fence I  know,  and  only  one  ;  very  naturally,  it  is  by 
Carlyle.  "  It  has  in  many  cases  its  own  appropri- 
ateness. Certainly,  in  all  matters  of  business  or 
science,  in  all  expositions  of  fact  or  argument,  clear- 
ness and  ready  comprehensibility  are  a  great,  often 
an  indispensable,  object.  Science  and  poetry,  hav- 
ing separate  purposes,  may  have  each  its  several 
law.  One  degree  of  light  the  artist  may  find  will 
become  one  delineation,  quite  a  different  degree  of 
light  another.  The  face  of  Agamemnon  was  not 
painted,  but  hidden,  in  the  old  picture  ;  the  veiled 
figure  at  Sais  was  the  most  impressive  in  the  temple. 
This  style  of  composition  has  often  a  singular  charm. 
The  reader  is  kept  on  the  alert,  ever  conscious  of 
his  own  active  cooperation.  Light  breaks  on  him, 
and  clearer  vision  by  degrees,  till  at  last  the  whole 
lovely  shape  comes  forth,  definite,  it  may  be,  and 


GERMAN  STYLE.  571 

bright  with  heavenly  radiance,  or  fading  on  this 
side  and  that  into  vague,  expressive  mystery.  We 
love  it  the  more  for  the  labor  it  has  given  us ;  we 
almost  feel  as  if  we  ourselves  had  assisted  at  its 
creation."1 

After  enunciating  his  theory  in  the  words  just 
quoted,  Carlyle  proceeded  to  put  it  into  practice ; 
for  he  wrote,  soon  after,  "  Sartor  Kesartus,"  in 
which  his  meaning  appears  through  a  vapor  burning 
with  blinding  simile,  thick  with  indefinite  statement 
and  uncouth  verbiage,  as,  according  to  one  astro- 
nomical theory,  we  dimly  see  the  substantial  body 
of  the  sun  through  its  ever-tossing,  wide-extending 
atmosphere  of  fire.  Never  has  the  effectiveness  of 
obscurity  been  better  illustrated.  The  common- 
places of  morality,  indistinctly  seen,  set  off  gro- 
tesquely or  beautifully  within  the  glowing,  pictur- 
esque envelope,  gained  an  impressiveness  which  for 
the  world  they  could  not  have  had  in  an  unclouded 
presentment. 

Carlyle' s  doctrine  is  nevertheless  false,  and  the 
example  bad.  It  is  certainly  right  to  say  that 
whoever  has  thoughts  to  express  should  express 
them  with  clearness.  No  authority  has  declared  this 
so  absolutely  and  satisfactorily  as  Herbert  Spen- 
cer, in  his  essay  on  the  "Philosophy  of  Style." 
"Always,"  he  says,  "economize  the  attention  of 
your  recipient,  your  hearer  or  reader,  whether  you 
are  prose  writer  or  poet."  From  the  obligation  of 
a  clear  presentation  no  one  who  has  ideas  to  ex- 


Essay  on  the  Helena  of  Gothe. 


572  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

press  is  exempt.  Unqualified  as  this  doctrine  is,  we 
may  take  it  as  the  only  one  to  be  accepted  by  honest 
men. 

That  men  may  be  so  easily  imposed  upon  by  what 
they  understand  indistinctly  is  a  weakness  of  human 
nature*  Said  the  Latin  poet  Lucretius:  "Foolish 
men  admire,  and  love  the  more,  all  things  which 
they  see  hiding  away  behind  obscurities  of  style. 
They  consider  true  what  touches  the  ears  in  a  finely- 
sounding  manner  and  is  pleasantly  set  off."  l 

The  folly  of  which  Lucretius  speaks  is  a  species 
from  which  none  of  us  are  free.  Often  do  men, 
especially  if  the  education  has  not  been  thorough, 
treat  lightly  the  intelligible  man,  considering  him  to 
be  shallow.  Blinded  however  by  obscurities,  we 
credit  them  with  a  weight  of  hidden  meaning  they 
do  not  at  all  possess.  Vanity  enforces  credulity. 
Unwilling  to  confess  ourselves  mystified,  and  imag- 
ining that  our  neighbor  sees  clearly,  we  insincerely 
pretend  to  have  light,  and  hastily  embrace  the' 
shadow  for  substance. 

To  take  advantage  of  this  weakness  of  human 
nature  is  to  treat  men  unfairly.  The  concealing 
the  face  of  Agamemnon,  and  the  veiling  the  statue 
at  Sais,  in  order  to  enhance  the  effect,  —  to  recur  to 
Carlyle's  illustration,  —  was  trickery,  in  place  in  a 
theatrical  presentation  ;  for  the  stage,  among  human 


Omnia  enim  stolidi  magis  admirantur,  amant  que 
Inversis  quae  sub  verb  is  latitantia  cernunt, 
Veraque  constituunt  quae  belle  tangere  possunl 
Amis,  et  lepido  quae  sunt  fucata  son  ore. 

-De  Reruni  Natura.  1.  641,  etc. 


GERMAN  STYLE,  573 

institutions,  is  privileged  to  deceive  ;  but  deserving 
to  be  rejected  in  all  serious  and  honest  life.  He 
who  is  careless  about  a  clear  presentation  in  ex- 
pressing his  thoughts  has  not  done  his  duty.  The 
writer  who  is  deliberately  and  artfully  obscure,  for 
the  purpose  of  taking  advantage  of  the  weakness 
of  human  nature,  makes  use  of  a  trick;  his  end 
may  be  good,  but  he  has  employed  trickery  never- 
theless. The  seeking  thus  to  heighten  the  effect  of 
a  thought  by  investing  it  in  gloom  is  charlatan- 
ism, —  a  thing  in  the  end  only  harmful,  though  tem- 
porarily it  may  seem  to  serve  a  good  purpose. 

If  the  attempt  is  made  to  trace  to  their  sources 
the  kinds  of  obscurity  which  embarrass  us  most  at 
the  present  day,  we  must  undoubtedly  go  to  the 
Germans.  It  was  through  them  Carlyle  went 
astray.  Let  no  one  refuse  admiration  to  their  in- 
tellectual achievement.  Among  the  grandest  of  the 
literatures  of  the  world,  perhaps  the  grandest,  is 
that  of  Germany;  but  parts  of  it  are  as  densely 
wrapped  in  mist  as  a  Scotch  November  morning. 

In  general  we  may  say  that  the  German  style  is 
less  effective  as  an  instrument  of  clear  expression 
than  the  English,  and  far  less  effective  than  the 
French.  The  German  style  is  very  "  periodic," — 
that  is,  reserves  the  meaning  in  its  clauses  and  sen- 
tences until  the  end  is  reached.  In  subordinate 
clauses  the  verb  is  not  given  until  the  end ;  in  prin- 
cipal clauses,  if  the  verb  have  a  separable  prefix,  as 
is  very  frequently  the  case,  the  prefix,  an  essential 
part  of  the  word,  must  generally  be  thrown  to  the 


574  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

end,  while  the  verb  remains  near  the  beginning.  In 
a  large  proportion  of  German  sentences  the  mean- 
ing remains  in  suspension  through  clause  after  clause, 
until  the  attention  breaks  down  in  the  effort  to  carry 
the  load.  Let  me  illustrate.  I  take  up  the  Ger- 
man book  which  lies  nearest  at  hand,  and  opening 
at  random,  hit  upon  a  sentence  which  I  translate 
as  literally  as  I  can,  preserving  the  order  of  the 
words. 

4 '  After  that  already  in  these  years  of  the  six- 
teenth century,  poetry  gradually  begins  to  die  away, 
especially  the  clear  popular  voices  of  the  same,  one 
after  the  other,  to  become  silent  commence,  and  out 
of  the  free,  fresh,  natural  folk-song  even  a  strained, 
forced -gayety- representing,  and  already -with- all  - 
kinds-of  learned-frippery-bordered  'social  song'  (as 
Hoffmann  von  Fallersleben  this  later  folk-song  not 
unrightly  named  has)  come  to  pass  had, — became, 
at  the  end  of  the  sixteenth  century,  the  victory  which 
erudition  (classical  philology,  learned  theology, 
learned  jurisprudence),  over  every  thing  which  yet 
German  named  be  might,  gained  had,  in  its  full  com- 
pleteness, and  in  all  its  disastrous  consequences  on 
all  departments  of  German  life,  and  most  strikingly 
upon  the  department  of  German  poetry,  manifest." l 


1  "  Nachdem  schon  in  diesen  Jahren  des  16.  Jahrhunderts  die  Poesie 
allgemach  anfangt  zu  erloschen,  zumal  die  lauten  volksmassigen 
Stiramen  derselben  eine  nach  der  andern  zu  verstummen  beginnen, 
und  aus  dem  freien,  frischen,  natiirliqh.en  Volksliede  sogar  ein  ge- 
machtes,  erzwungene  Lustigkeit  darstellendes  und  schon  mit  allerlei 
gelehrtem  Krauselwerk  verbramtes  Gesellschaftslied  (wie  Hoffmann 
von  Fallersleben  dieses  spatere  Volkslied  nicht  unrichtig  benannt 


GERMAN  STYLE.  575 

This  passage  is  not  exceptionally  difficult.  Its  au- 
thor, while  perhaps  not  famous  as  a  stylist,  has  at 
the  same  time  a  most  respectable  position  among 
modern  German  writers.  It  may  be  considered 
fairly  representative,  as  a  specimen  of  German  prose. 
Let  us  test  it  by  the  canon  of  Herbert  Spencer.  Is 
the  thought  expressed  in  such  a  way  that  the  "  at- 
tention of  the  recipient  is  economized  ?  "  It  is  out 
of  the  question  for  the  most  careful  reader  —  the 
man  of  quickest  apprehension  and  greatest  power  of 
concentration — to  possess  himself  thoroughly  of  the 
contents  of  the  passage  without  several  careful  read- 
ings. The  sentence  is  periodic,  —  gives  no  meaning 
until  we  reach  its  last  word  ;  all  must  be  in  doubt  in 
the  mind  of  the  reader  until  "  manifest "  is  reached. 
The  protasis,  with  its  long  subordinate  clauses,  end- 
ing with  "  come  to  pass  had,"  is  very  complicated ; 
its  unity  is  broken  by  the  parenthesis  ;  the  verbs  and 
adjectives  are  preceded  by  what  modifies  them,  so 
that  we  have  suspensions  of  meaning  within  suspen- 
sions. The  apodosis,  introduced  by  "became,"  is 
not  less  involved.  One  relative  clause  depends  upon 
another  relative  clause  ;  only  study  enables  us  to 
say  to  what  we  must  refer  the  adverbial  and  adjec- 
tive elements ;  most  puzzling  of  all  is  the  principal 

hat)  geworden  war,  trat  am  Ende  des  16.  Jahrhunderts  der  Sieg,  den 
die  Gelehrsamkeit  —  die  klassische  Philologie,  die  gelehrte  Theolo- 
gie,  die  gelehrte  Jurisprudenz  —  iiber  alles,  was  noch  deutsch  ge- 
nannt  werden  mochte,  davon  getragen  hatte,  in  seiner  ganzen  Voll- 
standigkeit,  und  in  alien  seinen  unheilvollen  Folgcn  anf  alien  Ge- 
bieten  des  deutschen  Lebens,  und  am  auffallendsten  auf  dem  Gebiete 
derdeutschen  Poesie  an  den  Tag."— Vilmar,  Geschichte  der  deutschen 
Literatur,  edition  of  1868,  p.  322.  Marburg  and  Leipsig. 


576  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

verb.  In  the  German  it  is  "  trat  an  den  Tag." 
I  have  translated.it  "became  manifest;"  the 
one  word  "  appeared  "  would  not  be  an  unfair  ren- 
dering ;  the  parts  of  the  verb  are  separated  by  a 
gap  of  six  lines,  and  some  ingenuity  is  required  to 
see  that  they  actually  belong  together.  Very  care- 
ful thought,  then,  must  be  given  to  the  disentangling 
of  the  words ;  since  it  has  been  impossible  in  the 
reading  to  "  economize  the  attention,"  the  contents 
of  the  passage  at  last  are  caught  and  held  with  a  grasp 
which  the  previous  effort  has  jaded. 

It  may  be  said,  "This  is  unfair.  The  construc- 
tion which  seems  difficult  to  the  English-speaking 
man  would  be  easy  to  a  German.  If  a  passage  of 
English  prose  were  rendered  into  German,  with  a  cor- 
responding preservation  of  the  idiom  of  the  original, 
would  not  the  German  find  that  forced  and  exhaust- 
ing which  to  the  English-speaking  man  is  simple?" 
Of  course,  the  German  finds  less  difficulty  with  his 
writers  than  we  do  ;  but  the  human  mind  is  not  one 
thing  in  England  and  America  and  another  thing  in 
the  heart  of  Europe.  It  cannot  be  otherwise  than 
that  the  immense  periods,  the  long  "  suspensions  " 
which  come  from  other  causes,  the  many  involu- 
tions, should  exhaust  attention,  even  in  the  case 
of  minds  Avhich  handle  them  most  readily.  Herbert 
Spencer,  in  condemning  such  a  way  of  writing,  bases 
his  criticism,  not  upon  what  is  expedient  for  those 
who  use  his  own  language,  but  upon  a  universal 
principle.1  What  De  Quincy  so  finely  says  in  the 

1  Essay  on  Style. 


GERMAN   STYLE.  '  577 

following  passage  is  applicable,  not  simply  to  us, 
but  always  and  everywhere :  * '  Those  who  are 
not  accustomed  to  watch  the  effects  of  composition 
upon  the  feelings,  or  have  had  little  experience  in 
voluminous  reading,  pursued  for  weeks,  would 
scarcely  imagine  how  much  of  downright  physical 
exhaustion  is  produced  by  what  is  technically  called 
the  periodic  style  of  writing  ;  it  is  not  the  length," 
*  *  *  "  the  paralytic  flux  of  words  ;  it  is  not  even 
the  cumbrous  involution  of  parts  within  parts,  sepa- 
rately considered,  that  bears  so  heavily  upon  the 
attention.  It  is  the  suspense,  the  holding  on  of 
the  mind  until  the  apodosis,  or  coming  round  of  the 
sentence,  commences,  —  this  it  is  which  wears  out 
the  faculty  of  attention.  A  sentence,  for  example, 
begins  with  a  series  of  ifs;  perhaps  a  dozen  lines  are 
occupied  w^ith  expanding  the  conditions  under  which 
something  is  affirmed  or  denied.  Here  you  cannot 
dismiss  and  have  done  with  the  ideas  as  you  go 
along  ;  all  is  hypothetic  ;  all  is  suspended  in  the  air. 
The  conditions  are  not  fully  understood  until  you 
are  acquainted  with  the  dependency  ;  you  must  give 
a  separate  attention  to  each  clause  of  this  complex 
hypothesis,  and  yet  having  done  that  by  a  painful 
effort,  you  have  done  nothing  at  all ;  for  you  must  ex- 
ercise a  reacting  attention  through  the  corresponding 
latter  section  in  order  to  follow  out  its  relations  to  all 
parts  of  the  hypothesis  which  sustains  it."  *  *  * 
"A  monster  period  is  a  vast  arch  which,  not  receiving 
its  key-stone,  not  being  locked  into  self-support- 
ing cohesion  until  }^ou  nearly  reach  its  close,  im- 
poses of  necessity  upon  the  unhappy  reader  all  the 


578  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

onus  of  its   ponderous  weight,  through  the  main 
process  of  its  construction."1 

The  kind  of  obscurity  which  has  just  been  con- 
sidered lies  in  the  genius  of  the  language ;  the 
individual  writer  falls  into  it  unwittingly  It  has 
sometimes  been  the  case  however  that  writers  have 
shown  wilful  carelessness,  or  indeed  sought  to  be  in- 
distinct for  a  purpose.  If  we  are  to  trust  their  own 
critics,  in  no  other  nation  so  much  as  among  the 
Germans  have  scholarly  men  been  so  afflicted  with 
that  vanity  of  the  learned  which  leads  to  making  a 
display  of  acquirement  for  the  sake  of  admiration, 
investing  what  is  simple  in  needless  complications, 
or  sometimes  imposing  upon  the  world  with  a  great 
show  when  there  is  nothing  at  all  behind,  —  in  a 
word,  pedantry.  The  history  of  the  German  uni- 
versities is  in  some  ways  a  discreditable  one.  Go- 
ing back  to  the  sixteenth  century,  the  wholesome, 
honest  Luther  sweat,  as  he  says,  blood  and  water  to 
make  himself  intelligible  to  the  simplest  of  the  peo- 
ple, his  effort  being  rewarded  by  such  an  acceptance 
on  the  part  of  the  people  as  perhaps  no  other  man 
has  ever  gained.  Scarcely  was  he  gone  when  his 
successors,  the  leaders  of  the  world  of  thought, 
particularly  in  the  universities,  forgot  his  example, 
wrapped  their  utterances  in  an  unknown  tongue, 
and,  avoiding  living  questions,  went  to  threshing  the 
straw  of  useless  dogmas  and  scholastic  points.  It 
is  a  species  of  folly  that  was  repeated  again  and 
again,  and  has  not  yet  disappeared. 


1  Essay  on  Style. 


GERMAN  STYLE.  579 

A  foreigner  would  hardly  dare  to  use  language  as 
severe  as  that  employed  by  Germans  themselves. 
Says  Max  Miiller :  "  The  pedantic  display  of  learn- 
ing, the  disregard  of  the  real  wants  of  the  people, 
the  contempt  of  all  knowledge  which  does  not  wear 
the  academic  garb,  show  the  same  foible,  the  same 
conceit,  the  same  spirit  of  caste,  among  those  who 
from  the  sixteenth  century  to  the  present  day  have 
occupied  the  most  prominent  rank  in  the  society  of 
Germany.  Professorial  knight-errantry  still  waits 
for  its  Cervantes.  Nowhere  have  so  many  wind- 
mills been  fought,  and  so  many  real  enemies  left 
unhurt,  as  in  Germany.  The  learned  men  have  for 
gotten  that  they  and  their  learning,  their  univer- 
sities and  their  libraries,  were  for  the  benefit  of  the 
people.  It  was  considered  more  respectable  to  teach 
in  Latin.  Luther  was  sneered  at  because  of  his 
little  German  tracts,  which  any  village  clerk  might 
have  written.  All  this  might  look  very  learned 
and  professorial  and  imposing,  but  it  separated  the 
scholars  from  the  people  at  large,  and  blighted  the 
prospects  of  Germany.  When  to  speak  Latin  and 
amass  a  vague  and  vast  information  was  more  cred- 
itable than  to  digest  and  use  it,  Luther's  work  was 
undone."  1 

A  study  of  the  history  of  German  scholarship  will 
show  that  Max  Miiller' s  severity  towards  his  coun- 
trymen is  just.  When  the  fashion  for  using  Latin 
had  gone  by,  many  great  German  writers,  even  when 
employing  their  own  tongue  have  been  scarcely 


1  Sketch  of  German  Literature. 


580  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

more  intelligible.  There  has  often  been  blamewor- 
thy carelessness,  or  indeed  deliberate  choosing  of 
the  obscure  rather  than  the  plain,  as  if  with  the 
purpose  of  mystifying.  The  writer  desires  to 
speak  of  German  philosophy  with  great  respect, 
but  in  the  present  connection  it  is  to  be  mentioned 
as  exercising  a  certain  bad  influence.  It  has  affected 
style  most  unfortunately.  So  high  an  authority  as 
Gothe  declares:1  "On  the  whole,  philosophic 
speculation  has  been  a  hindrance  to  the  Germans, 
often  bringing  into  their  style  an  element  of  the 
senseless  and  incomprehensible.  The  more  they 
have  given  themselves  to  certain  philosophical 
schools  the  worse  they  write." 

"Very  destructive,"  says  Kurz,  "upon  the  de- 
velopment of  prose  was  the  influence  of  the  phi- 
losophers." The  philosophical  jargon,  which  was 
destined  to  deform  the  German  tongue  so  sadly, 
appeared  with  Kant.  It  is  a  subject  for  lamenta- 
tion that  Kant  did  not  make  the  effort  to  give  his 
ideas  a  clear  form.  The  philosopher  himself  con- 
fesses, in  a  letter  to  Mendelssohn  :  "  The  product 
of  twelve  years  of  reflection  I  set  down  in  four  or 
five  months,  in  greatest  haste,  with  much  attention 
to  the  contents  to  be  sure,  but  with  little  care  about 
making  it  easy  of  comprehension  to  the  reader." 
Zelter,  a  friend  of  Gothe,  in  a  letter  to  the  poet, 
gives  rather  an  amusing  illustration  of  the  difficul- 
ties of  the  style  of  Kant,  even  to  a  cultivated  Ger- 
man. The  philosopher  was  once  visited  by  an  old 


1  Eckermann. 


GERMAN  STYLE.  581 

school-fellow,  whom  he  had  not  seen  for  forty 
years.  The  host  asked  his  guest  whether  he  ever 
read  his  writings.  "  O,  yes,"  replied  the  friend, 
"  and  I  would  do  it  oftener  if  I  had  fingers  enough." 
"How  am  I  to  understand  that?"  asked  Kant. 
"Ah,  dear  friend,  your  way  of  writing  is  so  rich  in 
parentheses,  and  brackets,  and  things  that  have  to 
be  taken  into  account  beforehand !  I  set  my  first 
finger  on  one  word,  my  second  on  another,  and  so 
on  with  the  third  and  fourth,  and  before  I  turn 
over  the  page  all  my  fingers  are  on  it." 

Kurz  accuses  the  successors  of  Kant,  as  well  as 
the  master  himself,  and  among  these  the  worst  sin- 
ner is  Hegel .  * '  Through  him  a  multitude  of  new 
words  came  into  the  language,  —  an  addition  in  no 
way  justified,  because  there  were  good  German  ex- 
pressions which  would  have  answered,  and  which, 
even  if  justified,  were  objectionable  as  faultily 
formed.  He  was  inexhaustibly  prolific  in  giving 
birth  to  word-monsters,  in  which  all  the  laws  of 
language  were  set  aside.  In  his  complete  uniutelli- 
gibility  it  is  often  quite  impossible  to  say  what  ideas 
he  connected  with  the  expressions.1  What  in  the 
great  man  was  bad,"  goes  on  the  vigorous  casti- 
gator,  "  became  developed  in  the  followers  into  re- 
pulsive affectation.  They  labored  after  the  strang- 
est forms  of  expression,  to  give  their  writings  the 
appearance  of  philosophical  depth,  the  result  being 
an  uncouth,  artificial  speech,  —  a  kind  of  hiero- 
glyphics." 


1  Compare  Heine's  opinion,  given  Chapter  xvi. 


582  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

The  thinkers  so  criticised  are  undoubtedly  peers 
of  Plato  and  Bacon,  —  of  the  greatest  minds  of  the 
world.  Their  systems  are  colossal  intellectual 
structures,  not  subjects  for  popular  study,  but  well 
worthy  the  attention  of  a  select  few  in  each  gener- 
ation, fitted  to  cope  with  them  through  special  apti- 
tude and  acquirement.  It  is  impossible  nevertheless 
to  resist  the  conviction  that  German  thoroughness 
here,  grand  as  it  is,  is  sometimes  excessive,  —  a  waste 
of  power  upon  minutiae  of  scholarship  and  specula- 
tion that  can  be  of  no  profit  to  the  world.  As 
Hegel  himself  said:  "  Thoughts  may  be  character- 
ized by  an  inane  depth,  as  well  as  by  inane  expan- 
sion." l  In  this  chapter  however  it  is  not  the  value 
of  the  speculations  that  is  discussed,  but  the  style 
in  which  they  are  presented,  and  the  effect  of  the 
bad  example  set  by  the  philosophers  upon  those 
coming  under  their  influence.  One  would  say  that 
the  positive  thinkers,  with  Herbert  Spencer  for  their 
Corypheus,  writing  always  so  as  to  economize  the 
attention  of  the  recipient,  in  a  style  beneath  which 
lie  the  thoughts  perfectly  clear,  like  objects  beneath 
plate-glass  without  flaw,  would  have  an  immense  ad- 
vantage over  their  cloudy  opponents.  But  when  is 
man  happier  than  when  he  is  fog-blinded  ? 

But  unintelligibility  may  come  from  other  causes 
than  obscure  statement.  There  are  writers  so  prolix 
that  the  reader's  mind  becomes  thoroughly  wearied 
with  the  amount  to  be  gone  over,  and  at  length  loses 
its  power  of  comprehending  the  diluted  thought. 


Quoted  by  Gostwick  and  Harrison. 


GERMAN  STYLE.  583 

Hay,  it  is  said,  contains,  in  proportion  to  its  bulk, 
but  a  small  amount  of  nutriment.  Graminivorous 
animals  however  are  forced  to  eat  it,  because  a 
certain  mechanical  disteution  of  their  stomachs  is 
necessary  before  they  can  have  the  power  to  digest. 
Food  in  a  compact  form  would  make  a  donkey  dys- 
peptic. Just  so  that  style  is  faulty,  it  has  been  said, 
which  presents  ideas  in  a  form  too  condensed.  A 
certain  distention  of  the  mind  seems  to  be  necessary 
to  the  reception  of  thought.  Many  a  truth  which, 
stated  in  an  epigram,  would  be  indigestible,  if 
trussed  out  into  an  essay  can  be  swallowed  and 
assimilated  at  once.  Some  such  theory  as  the  fore- 
going appears  to  have  obtained  a  wide  currency 
among  German  writers.  The  lavishness  of  your 
proper  German  authors  is  something  appalling,  exer- 
cised with  no  thought  that  the  power  of  attention 
and  the  eyesight  of  the  world  are  limited.  Such 
stacks  of  hay  as  they  have  pitched  into  the  manger 
of  the  poor,  patient  world  !  Take  some  of  the  most 
famous  of  them.  The  works  of  Wieland  are  com- 
prised within  forty-two  volumes  ;  those  of  Tieck  are 
not  less  ;  Jean  Paul  Richter  wrote  sixty-five,  many  of 
them  of  no  mean  size  ;  while  the  old  mastersinger 
Hans  Sachs  wrote  six  thousand  separate  pieces.  No 
one  will  deny  that  there  is  in  all  these  truth  and 
beauty  of  the  finest ;  nor  will  he,  if  candid,  deny 
that  there  is  in  them  abundant  hay, — hay  of  the 
stupidest,  of  which  even  the  noble  Bottom,  yawning 
under  Titania's  endearments,  might  well  have  de- 
sired a  "bottle."  There  is  much  room  for  dis- 
cretion, on  the  part  of  authors,  in  the  use  of  the 


584  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

pitchfork ;  and  when  readers  express  indiscriminate 
admiration  for  multivolummous  writers,  it  may  be 
possible  to  detect  a  bray. 

It  has  been  said  that  the  Germans  have  not  the  in- 
stinct of  selection,  "  an  instinct  which  seems  almost 
confined  to  the  French  and  English  mind.  It  is  the 
polar  opposite  of  what  is  now  sometimes  called,  by 
a  false  application  of  a  mathematical  term,  exhaust- 
iveness,  formerly  much  practised  by  the  Germans, 
and  consisting,  to  use  the  happy  phrase  of  Gold- 
smith, in  a  certain  manner  of  '  writing  the  subject  to 
the  dregs  ; '  saying  all  that  can  be  said  on  a  given 
subject,  without  considering  how  far  it  is  to  the  pur- 
pose ;  and  valuing  facts  because  they  are  true,  rather 
than  because  they  are  significant."1 

The  greatest  German  writers — Luther,  Lessing, 
Gothe  for  the  most  part,  Schiller  except  in  his 
metaphysical  pieces,  Heine  —  are  clear  as  running 
brooks,  as  compared  with  many  of  their  fellows, 
and,  though  prolific,  never  without  substance.  The 
writers  of  our  own  time  are  rising  above  the  mistake. 
Taking  German  literature  in  the  mass,  however,  it 
is  right  to  say  that  as  regards  style  there  is  a  neg- 
ligence or  wilful  violation  of  its  rules  which  puts  it 
below  the  English,  and  far  below  the  French,  —  a 
superiority  which  the  best  Germans  are  willing  to 
concede. 

"  The  English,"  says  Gothe,  "  all  write,  as  a  rule, 
well,"  "as  practical  men,  with  eye  di- 


1  E.  J.  Payne's  Introduction  to  Burke,  quoted  in  A.  S.  Hill's  Rhet- 
oric. 


GERMAN  STYLE.  585 

rected  to  the  real."  *  *  *  "  The  French  do  not 
deny  their  general  character  in  their  style.  They 
are  of  a  social  nature,  and  so  never  forget  the  pub- 
lic they  address  ;  they  try  to  be  clear  to  convince  the 
reader,  and  charming  to  please  him.  [As  com- 
pared with  them]  one  may  reproach  us  with  form- 
lessness." l 

If  the  Germans,  while  teaching  us  to  think  deeply, 
at  the  same  time  teach  us  to  express  ourselves  ob- 
scurely, it  will  be  hard  to  say  the  loss  has  not  been 
greater  than  the  gain.  Says  Gothe,  who  is  so  fre- 
quently quoted  because  he  is  the  highest  authority, 
alluding  to  a  prominent  German  writer  of  his  time  : 
"Speaking  honestly,  I  am  sorry  that  a  man  un- 
doubtedly of  great  natural  gifts  has  been  so  affected 
by  the  philosophy  of  Hegel  that  a  natural,  uncon- 
strained way  of  looking  and  thinking  has  been 
driven  out  in  his  case,  and  an  artificial  and  clumsy 
style,  not  only  of  thinking,  but  expression,  been 
formed.  In  his  book  we  come  upon  places  where 
the  mind  halts  entirely,  and  we  no  longer  know 
whatrwe  are  reading . " 2 

When  the  Germans  themselves  speak  with  such 
severity  of  their  writers,  I  may  venture  perhaps 
to  quote  an  English  judgment.  De  Quincy,  after 
paying  a  high  tribute  to  the  French,  —  whose  excel- 
lence of  style  he,  like  Gothe,  considers  due  to  the 
fact  that  they  are  of  a  social  nature,  a  nation  of 
talkers,  —  then  speaks  of  English  writers  as  being, 


1  Eckermann. 

2  Eckermann. 


586  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

in  comparison,  far  inferior.  He  pays  his  respects 
to  the  Germans  at  length,  in  these  terms  : 

"The  character  of  German  prose  is  an  object  of 
legitimate  astonishment.  Whatever  is  bad  in  our 
own  ideal  of  prose  style,  whatever  is  repulsive  in  our 
own  practice,  we  see  there  carried  to  the  most  out- 
rageous excess."  f  "  On  throwing  open  the 
book  [Kant's  "  Kritik  der  practischen  Vermmft  "] 
we  see  a  sentence  exactly  covering  one  whole  octavo 
page  of  thirty-one  lines,  each  line  averaging  from 
forty-five  to  forty-eight  letters."  *  *  *  « It  is 
the  prevailing  character  of  his  style."  *  *  * 
"A  sentence  is  viewed  by  him,  and  by  most  of  his 
countrymen,  as  a  rude  mould  or  elastic  form,  admit- 
ting of  expansion  to  any  possible  extent.  It  is  laid 
down  as  a  rude  outline,  and  then,  by  superstructure 
and  epi-superstructure,  it  is  gradually  reared  to  a 
giddy  altitude  which  no  one  can  follow.  Yielding  to 
his  natural  impulse  of  subjoining  all  additions,  or 
exceptions,  or  modifications,  —  not  in  the  shape  of 
separate  consecutive  sentences,  but  as  intercalations 
and  stuffings  of  one  original  sentence, — Kant  might 
naturally  have  written  a  book  from  beginning  to  end 
in  one  vast  hyperbolical  sentence."  1 

The  besetting  defect  of  German  writers  has  been 
sufficiently  considered.  It  is  an  obscurity,  proceed- 
ing sometimes  from  a  certain  unconscious  slowness 
and  circuitousness,  sometimes  from  a  wilful  imita- 
tion of  the  conduct  of  the  cuttle-fish,  sometimes 
from  want  of  the  sense  of  proportion,  which  leads 


Essay  on  Style. 


GERMAN  STYLE.  587 

to  undue  dwelling  upon  the  trivial  until  the  subject 
" is  written  to  its  dregs."  Now,  what  can  be  said 
as  to  the  cause  of  the  fault?  Matthew  Arnold, 
speaking  sharply  of  the  "verbose,  ponderous,  round- 
about, inane,  in  German  literature,"  attributes  it  to 
"  the  want  of  the  pressure  of  a  great  national  life, 
with  its  practical  discipline,  its  ever-active  tradi- 
tions." l  We  can  go  deeper  for  the  cause.  It  would 
be  truer  to  say  that  the  want  of  a  great  national 
life  has  itself  been  another  effect  of  that  cause,  —  a 
cause  which  lies  in  the  very  nature  of  the  German 
himself.  Unfavorable  criticism  is  an  ungracious 
task.  Where  the  Germans  seem  to  hit  the  truth 
themselves,  let  them  speak.  Here  is  a  noble  poem 
of  Freiligrath's,  whose  beauty  is  not  greater  than 
its  truth : 

DKTJTSCHLAKD  1ST  HAMLET. 

Germany's  Hamlet !    "Without  sound, 

Each  night  where  stand  the  portals  barred 
The  buried  freedom  walks  its  round, 

And  beckons  to  the  men  on  guard. 
There  stands  it  tall,  in  steel  arrayed, 

And  to  the  prince,  delaying  sadly, 
It  says :  "  Avenge !  on  him  draw  blade 

Who  filled  mine  ear  with  poison  deadly." 

He  listens  tremblingly,  until 

His  soul  has  seized  the  dreadful  fact. 
"  Aye,  thou  poor  ghost,  avenge  I  will ! " 

But  will  he  in  the  crisis  act? 
He  finds  no  means  his  breast  to  steel ; 

He  palters  on  with  doubt  and  vision. 
Before  the  deed,  his  soul  doth  feel 

No  earnest,  spirited  decision. 


1  1  Quarterly  Keview. 


588  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

Too  much  the  man  doth  sit  and  creep ; 

Studied  too  much  in  bed  he  hath. 
And  now,  because  his  blood's  asleep, 

He's  grown  too  fat  and  scant  of  breath. 
Such  poring  over  books  was  wrong; 

His  best  work  is,  precisely,  thinking; 
He  stuck  in  Wittenberg  too  long 

In  lecture-halls,  or  —  halls  for  drinking. 

And  so  determination  fails. 

"The  time  will  bring  some  plan ;"  he  feigns 
Insanity ;  in  verses  rails, 

Soliloquizing  o'er  his  pains. 
While  still  unfixed,  contrives  dumb-show; 

And  if  he  nerves  himself  to  fight  one, 
Then  must  Polonius  Kotzebue  l 

Receive  the  stab,  and  not  the  right  one. 

He  loiters  woful,  broodingly ; 

Excuses  makes,  — doth  go  and  come; 
He  lets  them  send  him  over  sea ; 

At  length  comes  moralizing  home ; 
Shoots  off  an  arsenal  of  wit ; 

Talks  about  "kings  of  shreds  and  patches;" 
As  for  a  deed,  —  why,  God  forbid ! 

No  such  resolve  his  spirit  catches. 

The  foil,  at  length,  he  seizes  fast; 

Now  to  fulfil  his  oath  he  tries. 
But  ah,  too  late !  the  act's  the  last; 

Himself  outstretched  on  earth  he  lies. 
There  by  the  slain  ones,  whom  his  hate 

With  sudden,  shameful  death  disgraces, 
He  lifeless  lies,  and  fickle  fate 

The  Dane  with  Fortinbras  replaces. 


1  A  felicitous  touch.  Kotzebue,  "  the  frivolous  writer,"  after  a 
residence  in  Russia,  returned  to  Germany,  where  he  lived,  it  was 
believed,  as  a  spy  in  the  interest  of  Russia.  A  young  student,  on 
fire  with  patriotic  feeling,  at  length  assassinated  him,  —  a  thrust  as 
wild  and  useless  as  Hamlet's  stab  through  the  arras. 


GERMAN  STYLE.  589 

Thank  God!  not  yet  so  far;  'tis  well! 

Four  of  the  drama's  acts  are  past. 
Hero,  take  care  the  parallel 

Appear  not  in  the  fifth  and  last ! 
Early  and  late  we  hope.     O  rise, 

"With  manful  blows  the  danger  meeting ! 
Help  with  decision  brave  and  wise, 

To  gain  its  right,  the  ghost  entreating. 


This  moment  seize,  —  the  earliest  chance! 

Yet  there  is  time,  —  the  sword  wield  free ! 
Before  with  rapier  brought  from  France 

Some  fell  Laertes  poisons  thee ! 
Ere  clattering  comes  a  Northern  host, 

Thine  heritage  so  precious  keeping. 
Beware !  for  not  from  Norway's  coast, 

This  time,  I  fear,  the  troop  is  sweeping. 


Only  decide,  — free  stands  the  path. 

Forth  to  the  lists  with  manful  fire ; 
Hold  in  thy  heart  thy  plighted  faith, 

Avenging  thy  perturbed  sire ! 
"Why  dost  thou  brood  unceasingly ! 

And  yet  I  ought  to  blame  thee  never; 
I  am,  myself,  a  piece  of' thee, 

Dreamer  and  palterer  forever! 

Freiligrath,  in  his  poem,  has  in  mind  the  political, 
not  the  literary,  history  of  his  country;  but  the 
characteristics  he  so  finely  sketches  will  explain  the 
shortcomings  in  both  fields.  "  Germany  is  Ham- 
let," —  the  explanation  is  sufficient.  Our  time 
however  Jias  seen  a  change.  The  poet  wrote  before 
the  events  of  1870.  As  if  the  nation  had  heeded 
his  summons,  it  has  taken  care  that,  after  four  acts, 

—  the  parallel 
Appear  not  in  the  fifth  and  last. 


590  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

The  nation  is  not,  indeed,  free  in  the  American 
sense,  but  the  despotism  that  oppressed  it  for  ao-es 
is  utterly  swept  away  ;  if  a  master  still  rules,  he  is, 
at  any  rate,  one  beloved  by  his  subjects,  ruling  with 
their  consent.  In  politics,  it  is  Hamlet  no  longer ; 
perhaps  it  will  be  so  in  literature. 

There  is  nothing  more  to  be  said  in  abatement  of 
the  glory  of  German  writers.  That  the  literature 
they  have  given  the  world  deserves  the  highest  esti- 
mation needs  in  this  book  no  further  setting  forth ; 
,  the  story  has  been  told  in  the  pages  that  precede. 
To  attempt  to  estimate  the  comparative  excellence 
of  German  literature,  to  say  whether  it  is  greater 
or  less  than  what  the  ancients,  what  England,  Italy, 
or  France,  have  achieved,  is  a  task  from  which  we 
may  well  shrink.  Whether  the  literature  of  Ger- 
many or  England  is  the  grander  structure  was  dis- 
puted in  the  time  of  Klopstock,  a  hundred  years 
ago,  drawing  from  him  an  ode  in  which  the  English 
and  German  muses  —  the  former  flushed  with  many 
triumphs,  the  latter  just  aroused  from  long  sleep  — 
are  represented  side  by  side.  But  the  singer  of  the 
"  Messias,"  while  he  represents  the  contest,  does 
not  venture  to  indicate  the  victor,  —  a  reticence 
which  Madame  de  Stael,  who  quotes  the  ode,  and 
whom  we  may  suppose  to  be  an  impartial  judge, 
highly  approves.1 

Klopstock,  however,  shows  a  touch  of  patriotic 
arrogance  in  hinting,  in  his  day,  at  a  rivalry  upon 

1  L'Allemagne. 


GERMAN   STYLE. 


591 


equal  terms  between  the  muses  of  England  and  Ger- 
many. The  former  had  seen  its  most  glorious  time  ; 
the  latter  was  just  beginning  to  vindicate  itself  after 
a  lethargy  of  centuries.  For  our  time  such  a  com- 
parison would  show  no  overweening  confidence.  If 
the  single  name  of  Shakespeare  be  excepted,  whose 
supremacy  the  Germans  are  as  willing  to  accord  as 
we  are  to  claim  it,  there  is  no  English  name  which 
cannot  be  matched  from  the  great  literature  which 
has  been  the  subject  of  our  study. 


